


Gray Room

by jadewriter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadewriter/pseuds/jadewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been ten years since Unspeakable Hermione Granger has laid eyes on her one-time fiance, Hogwarts headmaster Severus Snape. What will happen when these unlikely ex-lovers reunite under unforeseen circumstances? Loosely inspired by Wallace Stevens' poem "Gray Room" and Jane Austen's novel Persuasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Chapter One  
Five doors past the Hall of Prophecies, deep in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries, between the hours of noon and one in the afternoon, you can find her, sitting still for once. She sits cross-legged as she munches on corned beef, although she would much rather be curled in the same manner as nearly three decades ago in her mother’s womb. 

The room is neither as flashy as the now-defunct Time Room was, nor is it as eerily enticing as the room that houses the Veil. In fact, the room appears to be empty, except of course when she visits on her lunch break. Gray walls, windowless, forgotten by the magical world at large – which is just how she likes it. She sits quietly, inhales deeply, smiles tearfully. Peace.

~~

Leaning back in his armchair and crossing his legs where they rested atop his desk, Kingsley Shacklebolt surveys the ever-shortening list of Unspeakables, the Department of Mysteries’ discreet employees. Years after the mysterious murder of Unspeakable Broderick Bode so many years before, it is still difficult to find wizards and witches willing to brave the lonely road towards a career as an Unspeakable. The life of an Unspeakable was so classified that not many knew that the Minister of Magic, Kingsley himself, had begun his Ministry career as one. He privately feels that transitioning to a public life is not all that it is cracked up to be. 

Kingsley smiles as he reads the names of his Unspeakable protégés. Hestia Jones, a particularly clever addition. She was significantly less socially awkward than the usual recruits; he chuckles, recalling a memorable staff Christmas party that ended with a festive combination of apple-cheeked Hestia, spiked eggnog, and some rather naughty mistletoe. 

His smile fades as he reaches the next name, another whom he had assisted in her climb up the ranks of the Unspeakables. He had done so primarily at the behest of one of his own mentors: Minerva McGonagall, the formidable headmistress of his alma mater. There had been something odd about the job placement, he remembers. He quickly shakes off his sense of unease and returns to the task at hand.

“Not enough room in the budget to retain every employee,” he thinks ruefully. He hates to lay off a perfectly good Unspeakable, especially when taking into account the Ministry resources that have been invested in each employee’s rigorous training. 

~~

“You can’t be serious, Minister!” she exclaims when he gives her the unwelcome news. It is telling that she is more fearful than angry. A decade ago, she would have been angry. Now, she simply does not wish to lose access to the gray room. 

“You have worked very hard for a very long time,” he tells her. “You have barely used any vacation time in the last five years. Consider this a long overdue sabbatical.”

“An unpaid sabbatical,” she retorts. “I must earn a living, sir.”

“A young lady with your talents will always find suitable employment.”

“In fact,” cuts in a dignified, elderly woman as she breezes into the Minister’s office, “that is where I can help you.”

“Professor McGonagall,” Kingsley nods. “So glad you could make it.”

“Och, spare me the pleasantries,” she twinkles. “So.” She turns on her heel towards the Ministry’s newest ex-employee. “The children at Hogwarts need you desperately, my dear. What do you say to a return to the castle?”

“The children?” the young woman gasps. She had dreams once, of small feet and dark curls and little voices. Picture books interspersed with the academic texts in her bookcase. She put those dreams away many years before, but she sometimes likes to take them out to air in the gray room.

The older woman softens. “They have need of a teacher, one who understands and respects non-magical ways. Naturally, I thought of you.” 

Pained, the young woman says, “I would much rather stay at the Ministry, perhaps in a different capacity than before.” She looks hopefully at Kingsley. 

“Nonsense! Hogwarts will do you good,” Minerva says briskly. “You are left too much alone here. You are hardly ever seen, despite being a war hero deserving of the limelight, and you have become far too quiet. The children and the faculty will correct all of this.”

“I like my solitude and my anonymity,” she wants to reply, but in the last ten years she has become accustomed to self-denial. Her teaching contract is signed, sealed, and delivered. 

~~

“How is it that there came to be an opening at Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall?” she asks curiously as she follows the headmistress to what will be her living quarters during the school year. 

“I seem to recall giving you leave many years ago to call me by my given name, my dear,” Minerva reproves. 

“I can’t get used to it,” she sighs. “Old habits die hard.”

“In truth, I am getting old,” Minerva says gently. “I hope to use this year as a transition of sorts. The new permanent staff, including my replacement, will run the show, while I will observe the goings-on from the sidelines. I will only step in as needed, to ensure that the new order of things does not deviate too far from the old.” 

“Who is the brave soul that dares to take the post which the right honorable Minerva McGonagall has lately abdicated?”

“A Professor S. Prince,” Minerva confides. “Originally from our little isle, but it seems he spent the last several years in travel and study. The school governors were in charge of the appointment; they claim he is eminently qualified, although I have yet to meet the man.”

“Oh!” The heir-presumptive’s name stirs a gasp of recognition, of a memory that still powers her wistfully playful otter Patronus.

_“My prince!” she laughs as a newly strapping, dark-haired man catches her about the waist and tosses her into the air._

_“My princess,” the man says seriously, catching her and wrapping his arms around her once more. She tilts forward to drop a kiss on his long, aristocratic nose. He pulls her back and gazes into her eyes. “You are, you know. The princess to my prince. I want no other.”_

_She looks at him and feels an ineffable rightness, a sense of destiny being fulfilled. She of the princess’s name, queen Helen of Troy’s daughter. He, the Half-Blood Prince._

_“Princess,” he repeats as he sinks onto one knee and slips a hand into his robes’ inner breast pocket._

“Do you know him?” Minerva asks curiously. 

She says slowly, “If he is whom I believe him to be, then your school will be in safe hands indeed.”

Minerva replies, “That is a comfort, for what a stuffy pureblood name the man has! I taught a Prince in my first years as a professor, you know. She never had two words to say to a Gryffindor. To be sure, this Prince must think very highly of himself.”

The young woman smiles tremulously. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?” And Minerva’s chatter subsides. 

Later that evening, Hogwarts’ newest professor of Muggle Studies walks along the Black Lake, trails her fingers across the bark of a once-beloved tree. Visiting the tree had been tainted for her by the remembrance of pain. After so many years, she thinks that she can now look back with pleasure on the memories that the tree evokes. “In a month, he might be walking here again,” she whispers to the tree. The leaves rustle restlessly in answer. 

~~

It began during the war. As her two friends slept more or less peacefully, she would stand guard outside the tent and tremble—with cold, with fear, with anxiety? She knew not the cause, only that she must not let the two boys see. 

The portrait of an old Hogwarts headmaster that she kept on hand would watch faithfully and report, without her knowledge, to the current headmaster. “The Mudblood’s shaking again,” the portrait would tut. Each time, half-Muggle, half-magical remedies, made just for her, would mysteriously find their way to points just outside her wards, a well-placed word from the old headmaster’s portrait cluing her into their location. Candles that filled the tent with calming scents when they were lit. A Muggle shot glass filled with a dose of the Draught of Peace. Even a pair of fuzzy purple earmuffs that crooned Celestina Warbeck songs into her ears during that exceptionally savage winter. 

She was not the “brightest witch of her age” for nothing. Linking the lovely gifts to the current headmaster required only a minor expenditure of her powers of deduction; coming to grips with the possibility of the man’s essential innocence, despite his association with the cold-blooded murder of his predecessor, taxed her a great deal more. In the end, she found that she could not hate the man who left her a basketful of freshly baked chocolate and Fizzing Whizbee biscuits on Christmas morning. 

She was a fair-minded girl, so she asked the painting to keep an eye on her silent benefactor. Through the old headmaster, she learned that the man who had shown her so much kindness was shown very little kindness by the world in return. She also learned that he wore a John Lennon jumper, frayed with age and use, on the cold winter mornings when he completed paperwork silently in his circular tower office. 

She did not have much in the beaded bag that carried all her worldly possessions, but one morning she used her wand to record herself singing Beatles songs outside the tent as the boys slept. Tapping a Muggle pen that she had found in a dark corner of her bag, she transferred the recording from her wand. When her patron pressed the little button on the pen, her voice would fill the room with her rudimentary but sweet music. 

She agonized over her other gift, a small notebook that she told the boys was filled with notes on Voldemort’s Horcruxes but in fact contained, in her meticulous cramped handwriting, a catalog of every single reason for her admiration of the man. Perhaps he would scoff at it. Perhaps he would not even read it. But she decided that it was time someone showed an appreciation for the stoic, solitary headmaster. 

One morning, she told the boys that she was going to Apparate to the nearest town to obtain more supplies. Instead, she landed in Hogsmeade. Under the cover of Harry’s invisibility cloak, she traipsed up to her old school. The moving staircases seemed to recognize her intent and carried her to the headmaster’s lonely tower. At the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance, she finally found herself at a loss. 

“Lemon drop?” she asked the gargoyle. No. “Wormwood? Bezoar? Nettle wine?” No. 

A last-ditch attempt: “Oh, for Merlin’s sake! Tell him it’s Hermione Granger!” The gargoyle sprang aside, and she was filled with sudden warmth. 

“It’s Hermione Granger,” she said softly as she dashed up the spiral staircase to drop off her gifts at his door. 

By the next time she saw her benefactor—he was bravely facing doom at the wrong end of Voldemort’s snake—she rather thought she was in love with him.

~~

After the war ended, she returned to Hogwarts to finish her schooling. He had been saved in the nick of time by the combination of Narcissa Malfoy and Poppy Pomfrey, both of whom had heard Harry Potter’s proclamation of the headmaster’s true allegiance and immediately run to the headmaster’s aid. Strong doses of dittany, barrels of Blood Replenishing Potion, and constant vigilance contributed to his recovery. In a room full of peers and staff members, it was she who clapped loudest and longest when he stepped onto the headmaster’s podium that September. 

During the war, they had gotten in the habit of watching each other from afar, and the temptation to do so without the encumbrance of a portrait intermediary proved irresistible to both. At long last, one morning at breakfast, a school owl delivered her a music box chock full of Tooth-Flossing Stringmints. The Beatles’ “Yesterday,” sung in an unpracticed but rich baritone, filled the room when she lifted the lid. Smiling fit to burst, she quickly closed the box. As the bell rang, she quickly made her way to the headmaster’s office. It was the first day of the best nine months of her life. 

~~

She sits in her new quarters and pulls out the now-battered music box. She lets his voice wash over her, the bittersweet lyrics imbued with new meaning. It is not the gray room, but it will have to do. 

~~

They were private people, but a time came—her graduation—when the necessary people had to be told. Her two friends’ surprise and discomfort came as no great shock; she had steeled herself to deal with it when it came. Her parents’ silence on the subject was more difficult to bear, even though it too was not wholly unexpected. Her mother was tight-lipped when she saw his ring on her daughter’s finger, disapproval radiating from her in almost palpable waves. She refused to have anything to do with the wedding planning. Her father said only one word to their faces, but it did damage enough. Murderer.

She fought for him still, although his customary feelings of guilt threatened to do away with everything. She wanted to postpone her job search until after the wedding, until she had had enough time to help him realize that this was the life she truly wanted. That he was what she wanted. 

When August arrived and all her friends had settled into promising careers, Minerva came knocking, demanding an explanation for her unemployment. Reluctantly, the newly minted graduate relayed her happy news, thinking that Minerva, who had emerged as one of the headmaster’s most outspoken supporters in the past year, would understand. Instead, Minerva marched to the Ministry, practically dragging her favorite student behind her with the force of her magic. 

“This young woman has the brightest mind that Hogwarts has seen in decades,” Minerva said tersely to the Minister. “Give her the best position that you can find, one in which she will be able to distinguish herself instead of languishing in the Hogwarts dungeons, her only company a man who would keep her there with him because he never got the chance to leave!”

“He wouldn’t keep me in the dungeons!” she said, stung into speech. “We’re buying a house and—” 

“And what, dear? He will always be tied to Hogwarts, but you are meant to soar higher. He will always be a widely disliked, unlikeable man, but you are the Gryffindor princess. He—”

“He loves me! And I love him.” Kingsley gaped at her.

“He will always love a dead woman more than he is capable of loving you,” Minerva said quietly. “How will you—how can you—live up to the memory of a ghost?”

It was perhaps the first question that she, the Know-It-All, could not answer, and its resonances had haunted the rest of her life since. Kingsley signed her onto the elite team of Unspeakables, the position’s eponymous secrecy forcing her to renounce most of her ties. She went back to the school and quietly placed her love’s ring on his desk in front of him, followed by the ring that each new Unspeakable was given. The ring signaled to passersby that this was a person who could not divulge what exactly they did for a living, thereby preventing the asking of any unanswerable questions. 

The headmaster stared at the rings for a long while.

“Do you love me as much as you loved her?” she asked, knowing that this was the question that would either make her or break her. 

Slowly, as though combating great resistance, he covered the ring of the Unspeakables with one hand, grasping her small hand with his other. As he slid the new ring onto the finger where his ring had been, she sobbed freely.

~~

She did not see him again. He left the next month to “make himself anew,” Minerva told her one evening. She did not know when, if ever, he would return. In the meantime, Minerva would replace him at the school. 

The nature of her employment exacerbated the tendency towards secrecy that her relationship with the headmaster had inculcated, and she found her social circle narrowing by the year. Her old friend Ron asked her to marry him, but the idea of marriage had been spoilt for her. Her isolation deepened with her rejection of Ron’s suit, for his family, with whom she spent the bulk of her leisure time, took the slight hard.

She never told the headmistress about how her feelings about the whole affair had changed over the years. Left so much to her own devices, she keenly felt the loss of the headmaster’s quiet generosity, his intellectual creativity, even his unrelenting sarcasm that he directed at everyone except her. She was bitterly aware that by now she might have been the mother of one of the first years she would soon teach. She did not blame Minerva; she blamed herself for allowing herself to be persuaded from the longings of her own heart. She may have plumbed the secrets of the Department of Mysteries, but her knowledge was dearly bought and did not give her the fulfillment she sought. 

~~

“Will you be sad to leave Hogwarts?” she asks Minerva on the morning before the new headmaster is due to arrive. 

“I shall miss the faculty; they have been the family I could not have,” Minerva says. “But everywhere I go, I shall run into a former student, and I daresay I will not be lonely.” 

The young woman wonders briefly if the headmaster had felt the same way when he resigned his post. It seems to her that her every thought can be linked to him. Pathetic to feel this way after so many years, she feels. But then, he felt the same way about Lily Potter. 

The next morning, she treks the once-cherished path to the headmaster’s office, determined to arrive neither too early nor too late to the first staff meeting. The staircases have a different idea, propelling her to her destination with ten minutes to spare. Panicking, she loiters in front of the stone gargoyle.

“What’s the password?” a spirited voice asks. It is Ginny Weasley, Ron’s sister. She is still kind, if a little distant. 

“I don’t know,” she realizes. “Will you be working here, too?”

Ginny nods. “I’ll be taking the younger years for Defense Against the Dark Arts.” Ginny attempts a smile. “The two of us at Hogwarts again! It will be like old times.”

“Yes.” The two fall into an uneasy silence, which is broken only when the rest of the staff joins them, one by one, in front of the gargoyle. Nobody knows the password. The rest of the teachers buzz together in a little cluster, wondering when the mysterious Professor Prince will grace them with his presence. 

“The password is ‘memory,’” a very familiar baritone intones from behind the group, exciting a collective gasp. 

The gargoyle jumps aside, and Severus Snape sweeps up the spiral staircase, soon followed by the ragtag gaggle of teachers. She alone remains rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by her impressions. His style, his scent that she catches a whiff of as he brushes past: these are unchanged. His indifference, his dark eyes sliding easily past her: these are thoroughly unwelcome. 

~~

“Any questions?” he asks by way of drawing the meeting to a close.

Tiny Professor Flitwick pipes up rather hesitantly. “Oh, Severus, it is so good to have you back among us. Do you mind my asking how you have spent the past ten years?”

“That has nothing to do with the logistics for the new school year,” the headmaster rebukes. “But I will answer, rather than have the lot of you conjure up and disseminate your own fantastical ideas.”

The little knot of professors leans forward eagerly.

“In the beginning, I went to Austria,” he continues, “acquainting myself with my mother’s family. They had heard of my … exploits during the war, and they decided that I should inherit my grandmother Prince’s estate. Pending a thorough vetting process, of course.” 

“Oh, how lovely!” Professor Sprout gasps.

“As you can tell by my changed surname, I made the cut. Exchanging the Snape name for Prince was the only stipulation of the entail.”

“What did you do with your inheritance?” Ginny asks curiously. 

“I have not touched the bulk of it. I have simple needs. What little I have used, I have invested in talent. A good many of the most recent European graduates with a Potions mastery studied under me and financed their education on my knut.”

“Once a teacher, always a teacher,” Hagrid says gruffly, dabbing at his eyes with an enormous handkerchief. 

The headmaster smiles humorlessly. “I thought I would try something altogether different with my newfound leisure time, but I have found that what kept me sane in my worst moments is all I want in happier times as well.”

Throughout the meeting, she has been too shy to look directly at him, yet still she sees him, as her favorite Muggle author wrote, “as one does the sun, without looking.” She feels a pair of eyes on her at these puzzling words of the headmaster’s, and she looks up. Ginny Weasley is boring concerned eyes into her, looking away only when the headmaster clears his throat and dismisses the group. 

It’s over, she thinks dazedly as her feet carry her down the spiral staircase. They have been in the same room together, and it is clear that he has no intention of behaving awkwardly in her presence. It is both reassuring and disappointing. 

At the Welcoming Feast that night, Ginny leans over. “Professor Prince and I had a spot of tea and a chat after the staff meeting. He said that he would be co-teaching Defense with me to the upper years, so we will be spending quite a bit of time together. I asked him what he thought of how you had turned out, and he was as blunt as ever. He said you’ve changed so much that he hardly recognized you.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes, he was quite surprised you aren’t Minister of Magic already! Although he did say that you’re so quiet now that perhaps that is no great wonder. He seemed rather disappointed.”

A disappointment, she thinks. That is all I am to him now. The realization is painful, but she feels an odd relief at knowing what to expect from him. She bites her lip and sags in her chair. She need not pretend to be anything more than what she is. 

“Hermione,” Ginny says softly, patting her hand gently. “I know we haven’t really spoken in years, but I mean to fix that. When the thing between you and Ron ended, well, I suppose we all didn’t consider what it did to you. We were only thinking about Ron.” Ginny is close to tears. “I can see now that you and Ron wouldn’t have worked. And ending it before it went too far was brave of you. I am so sorry.”

From the vantage point of his central seat at the head table, the headmaster watches the two youngest staff members hug. He had returned to Hogwarts because he could no longer countenance living alone in the stately but silent Prince mansion, but he had no desire to see the woman to whom he had been affianced. Learning that she was to work at the school, contracted by the same person who had coaxed her out of his life, was a torment. He had paid a visit to the school governors this afternoon to see if he could remove her, but it was not possible without a ready replacement. And the part of him that refused to throw away the Muggle-inspired gifts that had brought the two of them together could not face removing her from the position. She would fill the post admirably, damn her.


	2. Chapter Two

They never speak, never exchange more than a passing nod on the staircases that seem to delight in nothing more than moving the erstwhile couple towards each other. In the old days, they would have lingered during every chance meeting; then, there was never any lack for words, though if he were in a romantic mood there sometimes was a lack of oxygen. 

Since she cannot bring herself to speak to him, she listens to him. For the first time in his life, he is popular with the staff and pupils alike, and he demonstrates a patience with his well-wishers that she finds strangely enchanting. He is still the master of sarcasm dressed in silk, but his witticisms lack the old venom. He is happy to be home, she realizes.

Renewing her friendship with Ginny reminds her of why she and the fiery redhead never were very close to begin with. For she is strict and strait-laced where Ginny is all charm and charisma, and she knows that her inner light is a dull thing next to Ginny’s obvious sheen. She is Melanie to Ginny’s Scarlett O’Hara, and the worst is that Ginny has a decided resemblance to a certain long-gone love of the headmaster’s. Watching Professor Weasley’s head bend closer to his as they discuss their shared Defense classes, the Muggle Studies professor feels her heart rate accelerating, her palms sweating, her stomach tying in a Gordian knot. _When will my penance end?_ she wonders. 

She visits her parents on the weekend, and they make banana pancakes, her father disgustingly spreading his breakfast with marmite instead of butter. 

“Dear?” her mother addresses her tentatively. “Are there any nice professors at the school? Anyone who sparks your interest?” 

She hesitates, which her mother takes as a promising sign. 

“Hermione?”

She bursts into tears. 

~~

_Enough,_ she decides as she appears with a crack! outside the Hogwarts gates. She is a woman of action, not of moping. She will make a plan for the next year and devote herself to her students in the interim. For she will not remain here a day longer than the last day of the summer term; she has her limits.

She trudges—no, _marches_ —up to the school and up, up, up to the headmaster’s tower where the first staff meeting of the month is to be held. She enters the circular office with her head held high and slips unobtrusively into a chair next to Neville Longbottom, who will be taking over for Professor Sprout in the winter term. He greets her with a lopsided smile. Dear Neville, she smiles back, feeling a rush of warmth. The two of them join the general conversation about the upcoming Halloween feast. 

“Wouldn’t it be nice to make it a ball this year?” Ginny proposes, winking at the dour headmaster. “To celebrate the return of one of Hogwarts’ finest?”

He sniffs. “The less attention that my return draws, the happier I will be. However,” he pauses thoughtfully, “a ball is not a terrible idea. The school is in dire need of additional funds, now that there is such a large influx of children who were born at the end of the war. We could open the event to the wizarding world for a fee, make it a class reunion or some such nonsense.” 

“Wonderful idea!” Professor Flitwick jumps from the chair on which he has been standing, his head still reaching no higher than the headmaster’s ear. “Brilliant, Professor Weasley!”

“We will need someone to take charge of the planning,” the headmaster begins. 

Ginny interjects, “There is no one better suited to a task like this than our Hermione!”

The young professor startles. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,” she says, distressed. 

Hagrid nudges her from behind, and she nearly falls out of her seat from the force of his movement. “’Course you can, ’ermione! Never ’eard of a thing you couldn’t do!”

“It is settled, then,” the headmaster proclaims. His eyes meet hers for the first time in years, but they are unreadable. 

Later, as the meeting adjourns, she overhears Ginny asking, “Will you invite the Malfoys to the ball, sir?”

“Seeing as I owe Narcissa Malfoy my life, that is a reasonable assumption to make. Why do you ask?”

“Lucius Malfoy is singlehandedly responsible for the perfectly horrible first year that I spent at Hogwarts,” Ginny replies. “I like to know where he will be at all times so that I can avoid him.” 

He chuckles, the sound rusty from disuse. “You will be glad to know that Lucius lost most of the spring in his step when he and Narcissa were placed on probation following the war. You have nothing to fear from him. Draco has in fact become quite a subdued young man.”

“I heard his fiancée passed away very suddenly.”

“Yes, it was most unexpected.” He frowns. “Draco has not been the same since.”

“It must be hard to lose someone you love so much, someone you expected to spend the rest of your days with. I cannot imagine what he must have endured.”

The headmaster is quiet for a moment. “I hope you never have to experience anything like it, Professor Weasley.” A strange, bitter smile twists his lips. “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” 

Ginny smiles uncertainly at him, clearly confused. Meanwhile, the Muggle Studies professor leaves the room with a bounce in her step. It seems that the headmaster has been dipping into her seventh years’ assigned reading. 

~~

It appears that she is indeed the best choice for putting together the Halloween ball. During the next Hogsmeade weekend, she sends her eldest students out into the streets of Hogsmeade to publicize the event. She writes letters full of solicitude and thinly veiled pleas for donations: to Harry, to the school governors, to Minerva, even to Minister Shacklebolt. She works with enthusiastic Professors Flitwick and Hagrid to decorate the Great Hall with enormous, floating pumpkins and candy stations. She cannot decide if the taxidermied Acromantula that Hagrid pawned off of a banshee in the Hog’s Head is too sinister a touch for the entrance hall; Ron certainly wouldn’t be able to handle it.

The night begins without a hitch. Witches and wizards in fancy dress sail happily into the castle via the spooky boats that Hagrid usually reserves for the first years on the first day of term. The Hogwarts ghosts flit gloomily among the guests, adding local color to the event. Lining the Great Hall are barrels of pumpkin juice—spiked with stronger stuff for the older guests. 

She has challenged her students to a Muggle fancy dress contest, and she is amused to see the products of her students’ creativity. Little first years bump into each other, covered in white sheets to represent the Muggle notion of ghosts. (Sir Nick and the Bloody Baron are most offended by this.) The older students have more intricate costumes: superheroes, historical figures, literary characters, even a human-sized television set. Distinguished Hogwarts alumni mill among the students, asking questions about their costumes and complimenting her about her handling of the event. She is very happy. 

Professor McGonagall seeks her out to join in the general congratulations. “My dear, everyone tells me you are responsible for this remarkable turnout! I am so proud.” The two women hug. 

“Oh, Minerva, I am so glad to see you! How are you enjoying your retirement?”

“Retirement agrees with me.” The older woman cracks a grin. “I’ve been seeing a great deal of Aberforth Dumbledore lately, as a matter of fact.” 

“Minerva.” The two women turn at the sound of a new voice. 

“Severus,” Minerva gasps, looking rather shaken. Standing before her, the headmaster looks impossibly tall, impossibly dashing. He is wearing his usual full black, but he has conceded to the spirit of the evening by donning a Georgian-era Muggle ensemble. It suits him better than it has any right to, both women think resentfully. 

He nods at them both but remains quiet. His foot taps gently on the floor, in time with the beat of the Weird Sisters’ latest song that is blaring from the makeshift stage Professor Flitwick has conjured for the occasion. He is dangerous, the younger woman thinks. At that moment, he reminds her of nothing more than a snake lying in wait for its prey. 

At a loss, Minerva looks uneasily between the pair of former lovers. “I was ever so surprised to learn that you are the mysterious Professor Prince, Severus.” 

“A pleasant surprise, I hope.”

“Of course. The school is doing marvelously well. Just look at Hermione’s students tonight! You do the school credit, both of you.”

“I’m glad I can count on your support,” he replies stiffly but not ungraciously. His ex-fiancée gazes at him apprehensively. He wheels toward her abruptly. “You have been standing on the sidelines all evening. Do you not dance?” 

In her most deeply buried memories, she spins around the circular office in his arms. He has charmed a Muggle radio, tuned to a station that plays classics, to adapt to Hogwarts’ magical network. Sinatra croons, the headmaster leads, she melts. 

Returning to the present, she hears Minerva say proudly, “Hermione has been fielding the admiration of the masses this evening. It’s no wonder she hasn’t had any time to take a turn about the room!”

“Indeed,” the headmaster responds. He is about to say more when Ginny appears at his elbow. “I was looking for a ‘Prince,’” she says playfully, setting a plastic crown, borrowed from one of the seventh years, atop his head. 

“That crown would be better suited for you, princess,” he retorts, eyeing Ginny’s form-fitting fancy dress outfit: a replica of Grace Kelly’s royal wedding gown. The two of them look remarkable standing together: tall, indomitable, aristocratic. 

_Princess._ The Muggle Studies professor’s mood deflates swiftly. “I must go,” she murmurs hastily. She can hear Ginny calling after her in distress, but she does not stop in her flight up, up, up seven flights of stairs.

~~

The repaired Room of Requirement is not the gray room, but her mind is too muddled to note the lack of the particular atmosphere that makes the gray room so special to her. She collapses onto the floor, her body wracked with an ineffable pain. Finally, finally he had begun to acknowledge her, but it was already over. He has a new princess, she thinks. She suspects that she will only ever have the one prince. 

~~

“Hermione?”

“Neville?” She sits up, unwinding sinuously from the heap that she had been in on the floor. Her old school friend watches her silently. “How did you get in here?”

He shrugs. “I saw you leave the Great Hall. It looked like you needed a friend. The Room of Requirement has always been kind enough to let me in when I wished.” 

She offers an unhappy smile. He sinks down onto the floor next to her, continuing, “You want to hear something funny?” 

She nods. 

“Our final year at Hogwarts, the one after the war—I’ve never seen you happier than you were then,” he says hesitantly. “And, ironically, I’ve never seen you unhappier than in the first few weeks back here. Although you have been much closer to the old Hermione in the past month.”

“That isn’t funny, Neville,” she says petulantly. 

“Funny wasn’t the right word, I suppose,” he mutters. “Anyway, I can’t stand to see you this way. I’ve been thinking lately about something that happened during our seventh year.”

“Hm?”

“I was climbing the stairs near the headmaster’s office, meaning to meet with him about some Head Boy business. I saw him at the head of the stairs, but his back was to me. I sped up, and then I saw something that almost sent me falling down the way I’d come.”

“What?”

“He was _kissing_ you, Hermione. And you were letting him.” 

She sighs. “We were dating.”

_“What?”_

“And what of it?” she demands, angry rather than sad for the first time since those halcyon days. “I was of age; he was cleared of all charges. We were in _love—”_

“But,” Neville begins, then stops. “What about Harry’s mum?” 

“Harry’s mum!” she answers passionately. “I wish I’d never heard of her. I wish—” she stops with a sigh. 

“Are you still in love with him?”

“Even if I were, it doesn’t matter. He has Harry’s mum’s memory, and Ginny, who basically is the reincarnation of Harry’s mum. There’s no room for me in that equation.”

“Oh, Hermione,” Neville says sadly. “I don’t understand how all this came to pass, but I’m terribly sorry.”

She scoots closer to her friend and places her head on his shoulder. “Do you think they’re a couple?” she asks, giving voice to her deepest fear. 

“You’re closer to Ginny than I am,” he confesses. “And I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m still too afraid of him to scrutinize anything he does. He does seem closer to her than to any other staff member, but they _are_ teaching together.”

“He’s rich now, and he’s a widely respected war hero,” she whispers. “Ginny is a good person, but she has always had a weakness for that sort of thing. Look at how she pursued Harry for all those years.” 

“And she has always been successful at getting a man’s attention,” Neville says slightly bitterly, recalling the first time he attempted to complete his seventh year, when he and Ginny would sit together in the Gryffindor common room, plotting to steal the sword of Gryffindor from the headmaster’s office. He had fancied himself in love with the righteous, rabidly inventive witch, but she had been holding a candle for Harry Potter. 

“The only thing I don’t understand,” he resumes after a pause, “is what could possibly attract Ginny to him.” He shudders. 

She pulls away and bestows upon him a headmaster-worthy glare. 

~~  
As the November chill sets in, she studiously avoids Ginny and the headmaster, and she throws herself headlong into lesson planning. Neville provides silent support, taking the seat next to her at most meals and escorting her to and from staff meetings. When Ginny manages the rare feat of sitting next to her, she devotes herself to the task of finishing her meal as rapidly as possible, hoping to leave the table early.

On Christmas morning, the Great Hall is quiet. The four long House tables have been replaced with a single ten-person table, accounting for the few students and faculty members who remain at the school for the holidays. Halfway through a letter from George Weasley as she slips into one of the few available seats, she does not realize that the person immediately to her left is the headmaster. 

“I didn’t realize you were planning to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays, Professor,” he says smoothly. She starts, the letter dropping into her mug of hot cocoa. 

“Damn!” she cries, fishing out the sopping wet letter. “That _will_ leave a stain.” 

“An understatement if there ever was one,” he replies, his lips twitching. “That looks completely unreadable.” 

“I suppose it means I can feign lack of knowledge of the Weasleys’ New Year’s party,” she confides. “You shall have to back me up if Molly Weasley decides to send me a Howler for not making an appearance.”

“I shall do no such thing. If I have to go, then I have no scruples in insisting that everyone else attend and suffer with me.” 

“You’re going?”

“Professor Weasley invited me last week.”

“Ah.” She wishes that he and Ginny would own up to their relationship and put her out of her misery. Even when she and he had been an item, he had flat-out refused to visit her family at their home. 

“I have not seen Arthur and Molly in many years,” he says. “Unlike most others, they were always kind to me at the Order meetings during the war.”

Unaccountably, her eyes fill with tears. “I do miss them. I haven’t spoken to them in years, either.”

“Professor Granger! Will you pull a Christmas cracker with me?” a small third year interrupts. 

“Me too!” adds another child, followed by a chorus of others. 

She must look overwhelmed, for the headmaster decides to rescue her. “Mr. Prewett, Professor Granger is busy with her letter. Hand me the cracker.” 

The boy is alarmed. “But, sir, there is nothing in the rules that forbids Christmas crackers, and—” 

“I haven’t pulled a Christmas cracker since the days of Professor Dumbledore,” the headmaster says briskly. “You, young man, have been granted the dubious distinction of sharing in this momentous occasion.” 

The boy’s eyes brighten, and the other children crowd around him and the dark professor as they each grab an end of the cracker. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs to the man next to her, but her gratitude is drowned out by the bang that the cracker makes as it tears in half, giving birth to a disgruntled little pygmy puff. 

“Oh!” the girls coo. “What will you name him, Bobby?”

“Prince,” the boy decides, scooping his sneering new pet into his pocket. “He looks like you, sir,” he explains apologetically before scampering away to evade the headmaster’s wrath. 

“Spoken like a true Gryffindor,” the headmaster remarks wryly. She giggles next to him, and for that shining moment before she remembers Ginny, the world is not too much with her. 

~~

“Fancy a walk?” the unwelcome subject of her thoughts asks, copper hair fanning tidily outward from under a warm knitted cap. She looks up at Ginny slowly, loath to quit the warmth of the Great Hall. 

“Ginevra,” the headmaster begins, exasperated. “Why weren’t you at breakfast?”

“Must I report my every action to you?” she retorts teasingly. 

“Well, I am the headmaster …” his voice trails off. 

“Oh, pish posh! Come, the weather is lovely. Hermione, you must join us! I won’t take no for an answer.” 

“All right,” she says, surprising herself. It simply does not do to be alone on Christmas day, she reasons. 

“Excellent!” Ginny says happily, pulling her up from her chair. “Let’s find you a coat and a woolly jumper! Do you still have the one that mum made for the Christmas after the war?”

The headmaster snorts. “The one dotted with basilisk eyes? Not one of Molly’s best works.” 

“Who wouldn’t want to be reminded of surviving a bloody great snake by the skin of one’s own ingenuity?” Ginny defends her mother. Recalling his own narrow escape from a snake, the headmaster shudders. “How do _you_ know about that jumper, anyhow?”

_“What, pray tell, is that monstrosity?” he asks her, gaping at the black wool interspersed with deep red, menacing eyes._

_“It’s the annual Weasley jumper,” she replies happily, tugging the offending article over her curls and slipping her arms into the sleeves. “After seven years of sending these, I imagine Mrs. Weasley tired of knitting book shapes onto them. Do you like it?” she twirls, the form-fitting top showing off her lithe figure to advantage._

_His eyes widen. “It is not … objectionable, but I think I like it better off.” He reaches for her, lifting the hem._

_“Prince, you’re pulling up more than just the jumper!”_

_“Am I? Silly me. Shall I stop?”_

_“No. Don’t stop.”_

“Once you’ve seen a sight like that, you never forget it,” he tells Ginny cuttingly. 

Ginny shrugs. “Please put it on, Hermione! I’ll wear this year’s jumper; we’ll be like twins!” 

The headmaster, feeling quite put-upon, shakes his head as the two women hurry out of the hall. 

~~

She falls into step a few feet behind Ginny and the headmaster, aiming to gather her thoughts and enjoy the snowy scenery without distraction. She cannot help but recall lines from her favorite Muggle poets as she surveys the snow-laced Whomping Willow, the white-fringed trees of the Forbidden Forest. 

“Out through the fields and the woods  
And over the walls I have wended;  
I have climbed the hills of view  
And looked at the world, and descended—”

The headmaster’s head snaps back to look at her, subconsciously mouthing the next words of the poem. She doesn’t notice, for she is lost in her mind’s winter wonderland, where she is washed clean of all regrets and revels freely in the soft tufts of snow. 

“Sometimes Hermione reminds me of Luna Lovegood,” Ginny whispers to the headmaster, shaking her head in amusement. 

He makes a little sound—of disagreement? Disgust? Ginny cannot tell. “In this moment, she reminds me of Draco. He spends much of his time these days in study and contemplation.”

“Oh, yes! I completely missed him and his family at the ball. The poor man.”

“He ought to get out of his head a bit more often,” the headmaster criticizes. “Dwelling on has-beens and could-have-beens can lead to nothing profitable.”

“Can you truly blame him?” Ginny says sharply. “If I loved a man in the way that he loves his dear dead fiancée, I would always think of him, and if he were alive, I would never part from him. I’d rather be driven to the edge of doom with him than live safely and without him.” 

“Is that so?” he responds with unwonted passion. “Professor Weasley, you have my respect.” They fall silent, and the Muggle Studies professor, having caught the tail end of this conversation, cannot help but read the unspoken censure. Her simple joy is quite spoilt. 

Without paying much attention, the trio has reached Hogsmeade village. The little shopfronts twinkle with floating Christmas lights, and the shopkeepers peer out their windows to hawk holiday sales to passersby. 

“I’ll stop here a moment,” she tells Ginny and the headmaster, grateful to find herself in front of a newly opened branch of Flourish & Blotts. She longs for the escape that books alone have provided reliably. 

“We’ll order a Butterbeer for you,” Ginny smiles, steering her companion in the direction of The Three Broomsticks. 

She must have taken too long to peruse the tantalizing stacks of the bookshop, for it seems like only a minute has passed when she hears the voices of the two Defense professors emanating from the next row over. Ostensibly, they have come to retrieve her, but they dawdle in the Quidditch section. 

“What a lovely edition of _Flying With the Cannons!_ I wonder if Ron has it. Hermione would know, I suppose. It’s such a pity that she didn’t marry him; it would have done wonders for his confidence. He proposed to her, you know.”

The headmaster laughs incredulously. “Did he? I didn’t know.” After a moment, he adds, “So she refused him?”

“She certainly did.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Three years ago this winter. I understand why she gave him up; they fought as often as they were pleased with each other. Professor McGonagall might have had some say in it as well. Harry said she was the one who talked Hermione out of an earlier engagement.” 

Here the pair’s footsteps pass out of the range of the Muggle Studies professor’s hearing. It is just as well; she feels queasy and overly exposed. She can only imagine what the headmaster must think of her love life. To supplant a man such as him with Ronald Weasley! It does not bear thinking of. 

Eventually, her path crosses that of her fellow professors at the register. She purchases several heavy tomes, but alas! She has forgotten her trusty beaded handbag at the castle. Weighed down by the books, her steps drag in the snow as they all walk towards the school. 

The headmaster observes her struggle and casts a wordless Patronus, whose form she does not catch, up to the school. Within seconds, a hippogriff, perhaps a descendant of Buckbeak, flies to where they are trudging along the well-worn path. 

“A good man, Hagrid,” the headmaster notes, bowing deeply to the beast. “Professor Granger, you are tired. This creature will transport you and your purchases back to Hogwarts.”

“That is kind of you,” she says, glad that he still cares enough for her to wish her well. “I’m not a great flier, unfortunately.”

“Which is why I am here to ride with you,” Harry says, Apparating into the lane. “Teddy isn’t feeling too well, so I thought I’d leave him with Andromeda and have Christmas supper with you at Hogwarts.”

She throws her arms around her old friend’s neck. “Oh, Harry, what perfect timing!”

“Mr. Potter, I see your savior complex is in working order,” the headmaster sneers. Ginny squeezes his arm in a comforting sort of way, which Harry’s Auror eyes do not miss. He steps forward to help his former fiancée onto the hippogriff’s back, where she wraps her arms securely around Harry’s waist. “Fly safely.”

As they zoom towards Hogwarts, Harry mutters angrily, “I bet he’s planning to seduce Ginny. And it looks like he will succeed.” 

She tightens her grip on his waist. She wonders if her friend has forgotten that Severus Prince nee Snape once seduced and succeeded with her.


	3. Chapter Three

Christmas dinner passes uneventfully. Harry spends most of the dinner glaring daggers at the headmaster and attempting to speak to Ginny, who roundly ignores him. In such intimate company, the headmaster’s tongue is loosened from its customary reserve, and he regales the table with tales of his exploits as a double spy. Ginny and the students hang onto his every word, made exceptionally evocative by his smooth baritone. His ex-fiancée is no less enthralled, but she endeavors to keep her composure by determinedly staring at Hagrid and imagining kissing him instead of the dark man at the head of the table. The effort is semi-successful, although the poor gamekeeper concernedly pulls her aside later to ask whether he has something stuck in his teeth. 

On Boxing Day, she visits her parents’ house, where her mother watches her with a hawk-like intensity. Ever since the young professor’s infamous crying jag earlier in the term, her mother has transitioned from nagging to thoughtful. Her father is less calm; he watches her fearfully as though he expects her to burst at any second. He shakes his head in amazement when he thinks she isn’t looking. She catches him reading back issues of the Daily Prophet, and she knows he is longing to ask her about the war but is biting his tongue. She senses that her parents are teetering on the edge of a precipice, one that could have the power to break their relationship with her or right it, but it is a reckoning that has arrived at least a decade too late. 

She simultaneously dreads and anticipates the New Year’s party at the Burrow. All too clearly, she remembers the last time she attended. Ron had drawn her into the family room where the Weasleys’ enormous Christmas tree, adorned with the handiwork of seven Weasley children and several grandchildren, held pride of place. Mysteriously, the room was empty apart from the two of them. She had wandered over to the tree to examine a particularly garish bauble—one of the late Fred’s making—when Ron cleared his throat. 

_“Hermione?”_

_“Hmm?” She turns to face her best friend, who is waiting on bended knee. Her mouth drops open unattractively._

_“I know we haven’t been dating for long, but we’ve been best friends for most of our lives,” Ron says quietly. “I don’t see any point in beating around the bush. What do you say? Let’s spend the rest of our lives together.”_

_In her mind’s eye, she sees another man, this one as dark of hair as Ron is assuredly a Weasley, also kneeling before her. ‘Princess,’ the dark man says earnestly. ‘You know that I’m not one for speeches.’ She snorts, remembering his infamous ‘ensnare the senses’ introduction to potions. He grins sheepishly, then plows ahead. ‘I have never shared my life with another, but I don’t intend to let the magic between us slip through my fingertips. Share with me this new life I’ve been given. I have no use for it otherwise.’_

_“This isn’t a joke, is it?” she asks them suspiciously, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes._

_“No!” Both men look offended. She kneels to join them at eye level. Ron’s ring is simple but lovely, a square-cut diamond offset by a garnet stone on each side. The headmaster’s is more unusual but no less beautiful, a series of tiny diamonds wrapping around the entire band, set in white gold. She closes her hand over the ring box._

_“When we’re old and gray, what do you imagine a day together will be like? What will we mean to each other?” she asks them seriously._

_Ron looks at her like she is mad, while the headmaster is momentarily dumbfounded._

_“We’ll have our children and grandchildren and my family all around us,” Ron says slowly. “No doubt we’ll fight and drive each other half-mad, but we’ll kiss and make up. It got us through a war; it’ll get us through all the rest of our days.”_

_The headmaster takes more time to think before responding to her questions._

_“You’ll get up earlier than me each morning. You’ll prepare coffee along with your tea so that I won’t be a crotchety old bear, but in truth it’s your singing as you put the kettle on that will wake me up and put me in a good mood—a good mood for me, at least. As I dress, you’ll do up my cufflinks, and I’ll attempt to get you back into bed. But you’re Hermione Granger, so you’ll refuse to give into my whims. There is too much research to be done, a wizarding world to save. So you’ll go about your day, and I’ll go about mine. At some point in the day, we’ll come back together and you’ll tell me about your day. We’ll work on whatever impossible mission you wish: liberating the house elves or planning a trip to Merlin-knows-where or finishing a puzzle. It doesn’t matter what we will do. All that matters is that we will be together. Steadfast and a constant joy: that is what you are to me, and that is what I intend to be to you.”_

_She trembles, reaches out to touch the older man’s dark, slightly wavy locks. But she encounters ginger, straw-straight hair instead._

_“Ron,” she says at last, knowing that she will have to be firm, that she must resist persuasion. “I don’t think you’ve thought this through. We might have fun for a while, but we already fight so much that we spend every other year not talking to each other. You can’t even imagine spending a full day alone with me, even after spending a lifetime together.”_

_“Alone?” he replies in amazement. “Isn’t the point of marriage to not be alone? To have a family and create a legacy together? I know you’re an only child, but Hermione—I’ve never been alone in my life. I’ve always had more family members poking their noses into my business than I can handle. I thought you wanted that. It’s actually kind of wonderful.”_

_“We already have a legacy, Ron,” she says quietly. “We defeated the Dark Lord. We’ve made the world a safer place, and we continue to work towards ensuring a better future for the next generation.” She pauses. “In any case, you know that I love your family, but they can be kind of overwhelming in large doses. I’ve always envisioned marriage as having one solid, reliable, amazing person to come home to after a long day’s work. Not oodles of children and siblings running about. Just someone steadfast, a constant joy.”_

_“Are you saying you don’t want children? And you think I’m unreliable?”_

_“I don’t know if children are in the cards for me,” she murmurs. “My mother had me relatively late in her childbearing years, and she had several miscarriages before she had me. Who knows, the same might happen to me. Especially with Dolohov’s curse in fifth year; who knows what it really did to my body?” She phrases her next words with care, knowing all too well that Ron’s delicate ego is easily bruised. “Also, I don’t think you’re unreliable. But the two of us together—our relationship is undependable. You see it, too, don’t you?”_

_He seems to be at a loss for words. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”_

_“I didn’t know what to say. I know it’s not an excuse.”_

_“It isn’t,” he says bitterly, “but you were right about the reliability thing. You may not be able to depend on me, but I certainly can’t trust you.” He rises, closing the ring box with a decisive click._

_“Ron!” she gasps, still kneeling on the floor. “That isn’t what I meant at all.”_

_“Everything you just said about your ideal marriage,” Ron says as a parting shot as he opens the door, revealing the entire Weasley family, equipped with Extendable Ears. “That’s what you thought you’d have with the greasy git, isn’t it? We all know how that turned out. I’d say it’s time you sorted out your priorities.”_

_“Snape?” George mouths in disbelief. While Molly looks furious, Arthur appears merely sad. Ginny looks as though she does not know what to think._

_She takes a deep breath and walks quickly through the sea of people, which parts automatically, as though afraid to touch a woman who could love a man like the headmaster. She holds her head high until she Disapparates from the front stoop. She makes her way quickly to the Department of Mysteries’ gray room. She finally has the words for the way the room makes her feel. A constant joy._

On the thirty-first, she was awakened at the crack of dawn by someone gently rapping, rapping at her chamber door. 

“Yes?” she asks blearily, wandlessly opening the door to her chambers. 

“Good morning,” Ginny gushes, well-dressed and far too awake. “There’s to be an outing before the party tonight! Be ready in half an hour. The headmaster and I will pick you up.”

“What are you going on about?” she asks in confusion. 

“We’re going to Lyme!” 

“I have no desire to see Lyme. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be returning to my bed.” She throws a longing glance in the bed’s direction. 

“No, wait.” Ginny clasps her hand in hers and looks beseechingly into her eyes. “The Malfoys invited Prince to their new manor in Lyme to ring in the new year, but he had already agreed to go to the Burrow instead. He doesn’t want to hurt their feelings, though; they have so few friends left. So he agreed to visit during the day, and they included the rest of the staff in their invitation. Everyone else is busy with family, though. Please go with us! It will make everyone so happy.”

She relents, recognizing that her friend will not be dissuaded. _Merlin save me from the stubbornness of Weasleys,_ she inwardly sighs. 

~~

They walk along a rocky outcropping that looks out onto a gently roiling sea. Lyme is beautiful in an entirely English way, she thinks. It is endearingly classic, a balm for the senses. No stark canyons and feverish wildlife for us Brits, she thinks sardonically. England is Hobbiton, not Mordor. 

In front of them, the Malfoys—Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco—pop into existence. A soul-deep fatigue is written into every line of Draco’s body. He follows his parents on their hike towards the Hogwarts group. 

Draco had been engaged to the younger Greengrass sister for more than three years. He had met her at a Ministry fundraising gala. She was the bright-eyed, keen young thing representing the war orphans fund. He was the purposeless rich boy who had found himself a man and not much liking it. Astoria had seen something in him that reminded her of the lost boys at the orphanage, and she took him under her wing. In return, Draco fell passionately in love with her. She had loved him equally, but she refused to marry him until he ‘found a passion other than her and turned it into a full-time position.’ 

To everyone’s surprise, Draco became deeply interested in becoming a Healer. He only had a year of training left when Astoria’s tea was poisoned by an insane witch who had visited the orphanage, pretending to want to adopt an orphan. At the murderess’s trial, it came out that the delusional witch thought that the orphans, most of whom were children of former Death Eaters, would grow up and become dark lords in the mold of Voldemort. She wanted to put away the woman who could enable the poor children to avenge their parents. Draco was inconsolable after Astoria’s untimely demise, and he spent all his hours at his books. 

Watching the Malfoy scion, the Muggle Studies professor cannot help but feel a measure of hope. _He is young and handsome yet, not to mention wealthy,_ she considers. He has a chance for future happiness. 

Lucius and Narcissa, with their white-blond hair and aristocratic mien, strike an interesting contrast with the black-haired, black-suited headmaster. They are surprisingly kind to her and Ginny, although Ginny is quite cold in response, particularly to Lucius. She supposes that Ginny’s understandable hatred of Lucius was the primary reason for inviting her on this escapade, but she feels mildly resentful for being used in such a manner. After all, she has just as much reason as Ginny for despising the Malfoys; the scar on her arm, courtesy of Narcissa’s sister Bellatrix, is physical proof of the fact. Only for him, she thinks, eyeing the headmaster’s retreating back, would she brave such an encounter with people she both fears and despises. 

“There is a hot lunch waiting for you at the house,” Narcissa says. It is the first time that Hogwarts’ youngest professors have seen a true smile on Mrs. Malfoy’s face. The smile transforms her stern but pretty features into something altogether luminous, and it is suddenly easy to imagine Narcissa as the young girl who captured the dashing Lucius Malfoy’s heart. 

“We look forward to it,” the Muggle Studies professor finds herself proclaiming, disposed to let bygones be bygones. In the end, Narcissa did save Harry’s life in the Final Battle. 

As the group troops to the Malfoys’ home, she trails behind slightly, falling into step with Draco. They walk in unacknowledged fellowship, only speaking once they are seated together by the library’s cozy fire. With a pang, she feels that she must do her best to provide a temporary distraction, if not amusement, from Draco’s all-consuming misery. In nearby armchairs, the headmaster confers with Lucius, inaudible to all but each other. Ginny politely trades gossip with Narcissa, the former looking for all the world as though she would rather be tracking down a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. 

It takes a few minutes, but she is soon able, in her own artless but effective way, to forget their old school rivalry long enough to strike up a genuinely interesting conversation. 

“Granger,” Draco says patiently, “magic is not a gene, as your beloved Muggles are so fond of. It is a quantitative trait. Thus, it is inherently polygenic in nature, like height or skin color.”

“But if magic is not a recessive trait dictated by one gene, then how do you explain the all-or-nothing nature of its inheritance?” she challenges. “My parents are not magical, but for argument’s sake, suppose they each inherited a recessive magical allele from their parents. By the single-gene hypothesis, their recessive alleles were then passed on to create magical me. However, if magic is polygenic, as you say, then how do you explain my ability? By your reasoning, you can’t create something extraordinary out of nothing.”

_“De novo_ genetic mutation,” Draco replies dismissively. The hint of a spark in his manner suggests that her plan to cajole him into distraction is succeeding beyond her wildest dreams. 

“But wouldn’t that necessitate multiple mutations across several loci?” she fires back, forgetting to use her ‘company’ voice. “A single mutation in one of the genes making up a quantitative trait wouldn’t have much effect; you can’t deny that my magic is far beyond a shade above a squib’s!”

“The latter point, professor, is debatable,” Draco drawls, a smile threatening to pull up the corners of his mouth. “But for argument’s sake, you bring up a fair criticism. In any case, the mutation responsible for your magical power might have been so powerful that it led to the silencing, or incomplete penetrance, of the other genes involved in the trait.”

“It sounds like you think epigenetics might be involved,” she muses. “That’s the only way your hypothesis could accommodate gene silencing.”

“Listen to these two—what do Muggles call them?”—“Scientists,” Ginny supplies—“ah, yes, scientists,” Narcissa says fondly. “Severus, do you ever miss your potions?”

Disconcerted by this interruption of his heart-to-heart with Lucius, the headmaster snaps, “Perhaps if I had more hours in the day to devote to pursuits other than dealing with unruly schoolchildren and equally bothersome faculty, I might miss them.”

“Oh, come now, Severus,” Lucius chuckles. “Don’t pretend that you aren’t working on some cure or the other every night while the rest of the wizarding world does the sane thing and gets a good night’s rest.” 

“I’m not so altruistic,” the headmaster says abruptly. “If I am working on a cure, as you say, it is because the art of potions is—and has always been—calming to me. It has been one of the few happy constants of my life.”

The Muggle Studies professor recklessly rejoins, “You can brew anything when you return to the potions lab, but you choose to further the science and practice of your field. If that isn’t altruism, I don’t know what is.”

He surveys her open, indignant face, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Or I might simply wish to achieve something that no one else has done, simply for the credit and glory.”

She shakes her head. “You received credit and glory enough in the aftermath of the war; you have the riches now, too. Tell yourself what you wish. You can’t fool us. You aim to do the right thing, no matter how much you might try to pass it off as self-interest.” 

Lucius chuckles, as the headmaster’s face darkens. “It seems that Miss Granger has figured you out, Severus.” 

“As usual, she is right in all the essentials but is missing something important,” the headmaster says quietly. 

“Oh? And what is that?”

The headmaster doesn’t respond, having subsided into a gloomy silence. Ginny walks over to his chair and strokes his arm, drawing soothing circles with her thumb. Lucius and Narcissa observe this behavior with keen interest.

Draco tries to revive the flagging spar with his old enemy. “Granger, weren’t you working in the Department of Mysteries? Now that you’re no longer required to keep that ring on your finger, can you tell us what it is that you lot actually do down in those Ministry dungeons?”

She responds softly, “We learn things.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Oh, many, many things,” she replies sarcastically. “I learned how to speak seven languages, including Gobblydegook, but I’ve never had occasion to use any of them. I investigated the very origins of magic itself, but it turns out that magic was designed to defy explanation. I found that there will always be more to learn, and less time in which to learn it. But do you know what the most important thing I learned is?”

Draco and the rest of the gathering wear apprehensive expressions, evidently alarmed by her scathing outburst. “I suppose you’ll tell us whether we like it or not.”

“Knowledge wasn’t made to be liked or disliked; it just _is,”_ she snaps. “In any event, I learned the most important thing in this utterly unremarkable little room. I call it the Gray Room. It is the only thing I miss about my work as an Unspeakable.”

“What did you learn there?” Ginny asks, scooting closer. Everyone else waits with bated breath. 

“I learned that the half-life of regret is eternity.”

~~

As evening descends on the rollicking sea, the Hogwarts group makes its goodbyes to its gracious hosts. The Muggle Studies professor is distracted as Narcissa pecks her cheek. She has been cogitating all afternoon long on the headmaster’s cryptic remark that she is ‘missing something important,’ and it is driving her half mad. 

“Visit again, my dear,” Narcissa murmurs in her ear. “You’ve done wonders for Draco. I haven’t seen him so lively since, well …” 

“It was a pleasure,” she says sincerely. “I haven’t had an argument like that since my school days. It made me feel quite young again.”

“Oh, you are young still, Miss Granger.” Lucius smirks before suddenly becoming serious. “I didn’t have to work in the Department of Mysteries to learn a thing or two about regret. But it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”

“I’ve been working hard to remember that,” she admits. “Sometimes it’s easier said than done, I’m afraid.” 

The headmaster steps forward and shakes the three Malfoys’ hands decisively, one by one. “Thank you for the libations. It was a welcome change from the tedium of the Hogwarts’ house elves’ cooking.” 

“I’ll be sure to let our elves know,” Lucius says, “although they might be offended on behalf of their cousins who work at the school.” 

“Do take care, Severus,” Narcissa exclaims impulsively. “You won’t disappear for a decade again, will you?”

“How could I leave? Hogwarts would be in shambles without me,” he replies. He gives the Malfoys a final nod before turning on his heel and striding over to the two female professors. 

“I’ll Apparate ahead,” Ginny says. “I’ll have to catch mum when she faints after seeing not only you but also Hermione at the Burrow for the first time in ages.” She twirls and disappears into midair. 

An awkward silence passes between the two ex-lovers, alone together at long last. “Professor Granger,” the headmaster says, finally. 

“Hermione,” she corrects without thinking, and then wonders if she is being too forward. 

“Once more unto the breach, then, Hermione?” he asks, offering her his arm for Side-Along Apparition. 

Her last thought as they spin into limbo is that the way he says her name ought to feel good but does not feel right, for to him she has always been nothing more and nothing less than ‘princess.’


	4. Chapter Four

The scene at the Burrow is pure chaos.

“Severus,” Arthur gasps, wild-eyed and grasping the headmaster’s arm. “Precisely the wizard we need!”

“What’s wrong, Arthur?”

A throng of Weasleys looks in their direction upon hearing the distinctive sounds of the headmaster’s smooth baritone. En masse, they move aside, revealing the supine, deathly pale figure of Ginny Weasley, deep red blood dripping onto the clean white snow underneath her.

“She’s dying!” Molly wails, stroking her daughter’s gleaming red mane of hair. “My only daughter!”

Horrified by this Shakespearean tableau, the Muggle Studies professor glances at the man whose arm she is still clutching. He has been rendered as pale as Ginny currently is, not to mention equally immobile. She jumps into action. “For Circe’s sake, Prince, go to her. She’s not dead, merely splinched. You must have some Dittany on hand, and if you don’t, then I’ll find some in my bag. We must hurry her to St. Mungo’s. I’ll take care of Molly.”        

Her words seem to jostle the stunned crowd of Weasleys into being useful. As the headmaster strides forward and carefully lifts Ginny into his arms, Fleur rushes into the Burrow to floo Madam Pomfrey for assistance. Ron follows her, intending to go to Ginny’s old room to pack some clothes and toiletries. Arthur and George begin arguing about who will pay the exorbitant hospital fees.

The headmaster uncorks a slim vial of transparent, viscous liquid and tips it onto the gashes that the splinching has invested into Ginny’s otherwise unblemished skin. He rubs the unusual ointment gently into the weeping wounds, his deliberate movements reminiscent of Ginny’s earlier attempt to soothe him in Malfoy Manor.

“Madam Pomfrey has ze ’eeppogriff pox,” Fleur reports, returning to the scene of the accident. “She will not be coming here.” The headmaster nods briefly, his eyes meeting those of his ex-fiancée. Suddenly, he is jolted by a memory, a favorite.

_“You’re hurt,” he says flatly, only his stormy eyes betraying his concern._

_“It’s merely a war relic,” she murmurs, stroking the angry slash across her chest that Dolohov’s curse bestowed upon her years before. “It reopens every now and then. Madam Pomfrey hasn’t been able to figure out what spell Dolohov hit me with. She’s visiting her sister this weekend, so I’ll take care of it myself this time.”_

_“Allow me.”_

_At his bidding, she slides into his lap, her back against his chest. She nuzzles her curls into his chest, directly above his heart. He cannot believe how trusting she is, how free with her thoughts and smiles and body. He is only just beginning to learn to trust in his unexpected good fortune._

_He unsheathes his wand and lightly places the tip against the crest of the livid wound. He murmurs ancient words of magic in his gruff singing voice, dragging the slim stick of ebony in time with the almost-song’s beat. And lo! she experiences the healing in a place deeper than her heart, deeper than her soul. His power seems to knit together the very core of her magic._

_“How did you do that?” she marvels, turning sideways in his lap for better access to his jaw, which she caresses with her fingertips._

_His mouth twists into a half-grimace. “I recognized Dolohov’s handiwork. Sectumsempra: my own invention, although he and his comrades transformed it into an even more despicable form.”_

_She watches him for a minute, her fingers never pausing in their exploration of the angles of his face. “I understand why you felt the need to invent such a spell,” she says. “One neglected boy against four Marauders. A headmaster who was blind where his Gryffindors were concerned. It was dreadfully unfair, wasn’t it?”_

_“Don’t make me out to be a victim,” he mutters, grabbing her wrists. Her fingers falter._

_“Victim? A victim wouldn’t have been so ingenious as to come up with such a fiendishly effective spell.”_

_“You shouldn’t admire me for it.”_

_“I don’t admire you for that, although your magical prowess is remarkable. What I admire is that you never turned that spell on any of those awful bullies, despite endless provocation. And I especially appreciate that you showed remorse for Sectumsempra’s creation.”_

_“Oh? How’s that?”_

_“You created a spell to reverse it, didn’t you? And what a lovely spell it is. I’ve never felt so complete.”_

_“You see the bright side of everything, don’t you, witch?” He squeezes her waist._

_“Certainly not. But I can’t seem to help seeing the bright side of_ you _.”_

Something in his poor tired heart lifts at the remembrance of her love, the way it cleansed and put a shiny finish on everything it lit upon. _She is so changed now_ , he thinks, _and yet look at how she has prodded Draco, the Weasleys, even me into renewed vigor. Look at how she gets us to be our best selves without our even realizing it._

Molly, nearly incoherent with gratitude for his—really, the Muggle Studies professor’s—quick thinking, prattles away about how Ginny hasn’t stopped gushing about him in her weekly letters, and a terrible truth attacks him with all the ferocity of a _Crucio_ to the gut. He looks down at the usually radiant young lady in his arms.

_They think she’s in love with me,_ he realizes. He suddenly recalls a thousand instances of casual touches on Ginny’s part. In fact, just a few hours earlier at the Malfoys’ home, hadn’t she given him some kind of arm massage? He had been too lost in his own usually Occluded misery to pay much attention, but now his rather extreme sense of justice kicks into full gear. _She’s in love with me, and I have been leading her on. She is ill on my watch, and she won’t be able to countenance a rejection. I will have to be hers if she tells me she wants me._

His gaze returns to follow his ex-fiancée as she bustles from Weasley to Weasley, assigning tasks and bringing each one up to speed on the plan to get Ginny, once stabilized, to the hospital. For all of Ginny’s attempts to woo the headmaster with her physicality, the moments that have gotten his heart racing this term have solely featured his princess of old. Hermione, curled up half-asleep in the library’s Restricted Section with a mug larger than her face. Hermione, dressed as a Muggle flapper at the Halloween ball and kissing the fancy dress competition winner’s cheek (the little girl in the winning pantomime cat costume blushed happily, and the headmaster was unreasonably, unaccountably envious). Hermione, reciting the most beautiful poetry in the snow. Hermione, her cheeks rosy and eyes bright with exertion while climbing the rocks in Lyme. Hermione, reining in the Weasleys just now (it was about time that somebody did). Hermione.

She rejoins him, feet padding softly in her aged trainers. “I was thinking that we could ask Draco to meet us at the hospital. His training and contacts at the hospital could come in handy.”

“Yes, I’ll send him a Patronus immediately,” he replies automatically, mentally reeling and nervous, so nervous.

“Don’t worry; your hands are full. I just wanted to make sure the plan met with your approval.” She whips out her wand, summoning her tumbling little otter. The silvery animal leaps up to him, giving him a good once-over. He cannot help but smile at the inquisitive creature, a glorious manifestation of her boundless magic.

“He’s missed you,” she says quietly, the otter butting its insubstantial head into the headmaster’s shoulder before leaving for its destination. Her voice is tender. He does not trust himself to speak, so he stands, arms and mind burdened with Ginny, to search for the Weasleys’ Floo.  

~~

Draco meets the group in the hospital lobby. The Muggle Studies professor has managed to winnow the Weasley contingent down to the essentials: Molly, Arthur (who has settled via an impromptu Gobstones match with George to pick up the tab at the hospital), Ron (who has nothing better to do), and Ginny, of course. And then there is the dark, unhappy headmaster, whose emotion seems to roll off of him in almost tangible waves. It has been many years since she has read his aura, but if she were to put a finger on the sentiments emanating from him, it would land on loneliness. Impatience. Regret.

“Follow me.” Draco beckons to them, and they follow him as obediently as ducklings. “I’ve gone ahead and set up a room, and I’ve asked to be put on call for the next few days so that I can keep an eye on Weasley.”

“Thank you,” Molly and Arthur murmur, but Ron asks belligerently, “Why should we trust you?”

Draco gazes at Ron evenly. “I made an Unbreakable Vow to do no harm before I entered this profession. Your sister is safe with me.”

“Why can’t we get another healer?” Ron asks angrily.

“Feel free to sit with your precious sister’s comatose body in the waiting area all night if you can’t handle the idea of me touching her,” Draco sneers, “but you’ll have Professor Weasley after you once she learns that you are the one responsible for the delay in her care.”

Ron deflates, much to everyone’s relief, though he seems determined to play bodyguard to Ginny during her convalescence. The group bypasses the waiting area in the “Splinches, Potion Splutters, and Wand-induced Splinters” ward. Casting diagnostic spell after diagnostic spell, cocooning Ginny’s body in lights of many colors, Draco and an attending healer perform a full workup in a rather dreary little room. 

“A mild head injury, and she may never regrow the third nail on her right toe,” Draco explains at last, “but we’ll sort her out, and she’ll be completely normal in a few days.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Molly breathes, but the Muggle Studies professor is watching the headmaster’s reaction. Tension flows out of every line of his body, and he sags, unwittingly, into her. She grabs him around his waist to prevent a fall. Time seems to stutter to a stop. _He is so tall,_ she thinks wistfully. _He is not mine._

When she knows he is steady on his feet, when she is finally brave enough to meet his gaze, his eyes sear into hers. A searching, an assessing. Slowly, he takes an unsteady step backwards, out of the loop of her arms. “Thank you, Hermione. You’ve saved Professor Weasley’s life.”

“It was a team effort,” she responds. He lifts his hand like a benediction, and she does not know what he intends. Does he mean to slap her? Pat her on the back for a jolly good job well done? Lay his palm against her heart, where Dolohov’s scar once coursed?

“Hermione,” Ron says, breaking the spell between them. “Can we talk? Outside?”

She casts a final look at Ginny. “Certainly.”

Their footsteps are unnaturally loud on the floors of the quiet ward. Ron’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and she wishes she could have fallen in love with him as had been expected of her. War has a way of throwing a wrench in the best-laid plans.

They sit in a quiet corner of the hospital canteen. He looks down at his hands and says, “He’s right, you know.”

“What?”

“Snape. Your quick thinking—that’s what saved Ginny, not anyone else. You always save everyone.”

“Professor Prince, not Snape,” she corrects. “What’s bothering you, Ron?”

“Him!” he bursts out. “Snape, Prince, whatever. You still love him; it’s obvious to anyone who knows about the two of you. And Ginny! She’s obsessed, too.”

“Don’t,” she chokes. “I’m moving on. I’m leaving Hogwarts at the end of the school year.” She determinedly looks up at a painting of a bowl of fruit, which looks like it could have been painted by the same artist responsible for the painting that guards the Hogwarts kitchens. She will cry in a minute, she thinks, and it will make everything even worse.

“You’re not going to believe me, but I was happy that you’d be coming to the New Year’s party,” Ron says, placing a large hand over hers. “I know you didn’t want to visit, but I’m glad you did, and not just for Ginny’s sake.” He gulps, looking as though he might cry, too. “I’ve missed my best friend.”

She does cry then, throwing her arms around the first boy she’d ever felt anything for. Absolution.

“Happy new year, Hermione,” he whispers into her curls. Unbeknownst to them, the headmaster watches from the doorway, having gone in search of the Muggle Studies professor to escort her back to Hogwarts. Happy new year, indeed. 

~~

The headmaster is not present at breakfast on the first day of the new term, and she frets in spite of herself, imagining all kinds of dire visitations that could have detained him. Neville lopes in, officially the Herbology professor now but not behaving like it, and slides into the seat next to her.

“How was your break?” she somehow manages to glean from the gibberish spewing from Neville’s mouth full of potatoes and egg.

She sighs. “Wretched and marvelous. I’ll tell you about it later.”

He chuckles. “Interesting combination of adjectives. I look forward to the gossip.”

“Gossip? I hope you don’t mean to leave me out of it!” A spry-looking older woman places a hand on Neville’s shoulder.

“Minerva!” the Muggle Studies professor gasps. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m still considered headmistress, in case you’ve forgotten,” the older woman chides mildly. “Severus has been spending a few hours each day at Professor Weasley’s bedside, so I’ve offered to do his morning duties until she recovers.”

Neville cocks his head to the side in astonishment. “What’s wrong with Ginny?”

Sighing, the Muggle Studies professor explains the entire series of New Year’s Eve’s unfortunate events, leaving out her outburst at Malfoy Manor. Somehow, she doesn’t think Minerva would like to hear about her ingratitude for her Unspeakable position.

“It does seem like Severus has made Professor Weasley his priority,” Minerva says at last, a frown creasing her venerable brow. “And to that end, Hermione, I have been working since Halloween to find some alternate employment options for you.”

Neville looks alarmed. “But Hermione can’t leave! At least not yet.”

“Minerva, I would like to finish the year, if I may.” She thinks of the stoic headmaster, leaning against her for support in Ginny’s hospital room. Someone has to look out for him now most of all, when he is hurting.

“My dear,” Minerva replies hesitantly, casting a _Muffliato_ so that Neville cannot hear. “I saw firsthand how painful your interaction with Severus was at Halloween, especially in the presence of Professor Weasley. I don’t think it’s wise for you to be confronted every day by a man who spurned you so coldheartedly in the past. Not when it is clear that you still have feelings for him.” 

“We have reached a point of friendly acquaintance,” she protests. “He has been very kind. It does not hurt so very much; it hurts less every day.”

Minerva suddenly looks very old. “ _I_ cannot bear it. How can he transfer his affections so readily, and to someone comparatively less worthy?”

“Lily Potter was a talented and beautiful witch,” the Muggle Studies professor begins stiffly. “Ginny is—”

“Lily has nothing to do with this, you silly girl!” the older woman exclaims. “What I mean is, how _can_ he pick Ginevra Weasley over _you_?”

~~

A few afternoons later, the headmaster rifles through the stacks of parchment on his desk, feeling thoroughly overwhelmed. His mornings at the hospital with Ginny are draining him. He cannot bring himself to converse easily with the young professor who might think he is in love with her, but he feels beholden to behave himself. After Lily trampled over his own feelings so many years ago, he vowed never to do the same to anyone who might justifiably feel that way towards him. So they sit in restless silence, with Draco bustling about in the background and doing Merlin knows what.

“Everything looks to be in order,” he says at last to the headmistress, who is folded neatly into a cozy armchair by the fire in his office. “Thank you for stepping in these last few mornings.”

“That’s it? You have no questions for me?”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks sharply, hating Minerva McGonagall’s gift for making him feel like an errant schoolboy. His stance, his words take him back to a memory.

_His heart is thudding in his chest. Hermione has left, her face small and crumpled, her finger graced with the ring of the Unspeakables. He suspects that she has left him forever. He did the right thing, didn’t he? But if he did, then why does he feel like his soul, his very magic, has been rent asunder?_  

_A tapping at the door. “Enter,” he says wearily._

_The door flies open, and Minerva marches in, settling into an armchair without invitation._

_“Severus Snape,” she scolds. “How dare you take advantage of Hermione Granger?”_

_He recoils, as if being attacked by yet another obscenely large snake. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t taken advantage of anyone.”_

_She stares. “Severus, you are like a son to me, and Hermione is like a daughter. Don’t lie about something like this, especially when it pertains to the girl.”_

_“What do you want me to say?” he asks angrily, his pent-up sorrow finally finding a release. “We did nothing wrong. I was happy, truly happy, for the first time in this entire farce of a life. Look!”_

_A quick upsweep of his wand fills the circular office with an ethereal mist, which coalesces to form a snow-white creature of regal bearing. Half eagle, half lion. The griffon Patronus pads confidently towards Minerva, whose eyes are unexpectedly tear-filled._

_“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. “It’s the Patronus you were always meant to have.”_

_“Who cares?” he replies ruthlessly. “It’s over.”_

_“What did you do?”_

_“What did_ I _do? Ask that beloved Gryffindor of yours what_ she _did. She went and got a job with the Unspeakables, of all things. You know as well as I do that it’s forbidden to get married or even have a relationship in the first seven years of their training. She probably always wanted the job, and who could blame her? It’s what I might have wanted at her age. All that knowledge at your fingertips!” He shifts restlessly in the chair into which he has sunk. “Who am I to stand in her way? I released her from our … arrangement.”_

_Minerva looks thoroughly shaken. The matter of the Patronus, along with the man’s un-Occluded despair, has altered in her some irrevocable way. “She didn’t put a protest?” she asks._

_“She asked me if I love Lily more than I love her.” He laughs incredulously. “Foolish girl. But it allowed me to hand her the job she wanted in a way that wouldn’t make her feel guilty.”_

_“Guilty, no, but heartbroken, certainly,” Minerva mutters. “So you don’t prefer Lily to her?”_

_“That is none of your business,” he says stiffly, “but use your brain, Minerva. Hermione has come first in all her subjects since her first year, hasn’t she? Is it any wonder that she should come first with me?” His mouth twists. “Do you know what I call her? My princess. Everything I do is to serve her, do you understand me?”_

_“Severus,” Minerva starts, then stops. “You’re a good man. You did the right thing to let her go.”_

Here in the present, he finds that his collar, rubbing against his scars, is too tight; he cannot breathe. Three years ago, after his ex-fiancée’s training was complete, he had contemplated sending her an owl. But the _Daily Prophet,_ to which he had a subscription even in Austria, had started to photograph the reclusive war heroine on dates with various wizards, each one less worthy than the one before him. _She is young; she has forgotten,_ he had thought miserably. If his brief months with her hadn’t counted among his most cherished memories, he would have gladly Obliviated himself. When he returned to England, his own foolish pride had fancied her no longer worthy of his attentions, had prevented him from speaking. And look where it had gotten him! In a pseudo-relationship with the wrong woman.

“You can ask me about how Professor Longbottom is handling being a full-time professor.”

“All right, then. How is Professor Longbottom surviving full-time drudgery?”

“Very funny. He’s doing an excellent job. As we speak, his enthusiasm is inspiring a new generation of budding Herbologists.”

“Just what we need in this world: more Herbologists.”

“I will pretend that wasn’t sarcasm, young man. Anyway,” Minerva halts briefly. “I do have one more update for you.”

“Do enlighten me.” He crosses his arms and leans back in Dumbledore’s old swivel chair. High above him in a portrait, the old headmaster who had facilitated the current headmaster’s wartime courtship leans forward expectantly.

“It’s about Hermione.”

“And?” he drawls, hoping Minerva cannot tell that his heart is suddenly racing. “Has Professor Granger filed a complaint regarding her replacement as most popular teacher by Professor Longbottom?”

“She needs to take a few days off next week. We will have to find a substitute for a few days. Perhaps Justin Finch-Fletchley would be willing to—”

“Where is she going? Is she ill?”

“No, not ill,” Minerva hastens to assure him. “Understandably, Professor Granger doesn’t wish to work here beyond June. She hopes to return to the Ministry in some capacity, although I understand that she refuses to hole herself away any longer in the Department of Mysteries. She has lined up a few interviews.”

“Professor Granger has been receiving rave reviews from the students, and the faculty, by and large, is fond of her,” he says slowly. “Please explain to me why it is ‘understandable’ for her to wish to drop everything and leave.” 

“Yes, Minerva,” the old headmaster says tartly from his frame near the eaves. “Please tell Severus what it has taken the past decade for you to own up to.” 

To his shock, there are tears in Minerva’s eyes.

“Oh, Severus, I know Kingsley told you that I helped Hermione decide on a career. But I was much more involved than that. My dear boy, I did something awful …”

~~

She steels her nerves and pays a visit to St. Mungo’s that evening, Neville kindly agreeing to accompany her. While Neville busies himself with arranging the flowers he has brought from the school greenhouses, she sits in the chair next to Ginny’s bed. _This is where the headmaster sits every morning,_ she thinks wistfully.

“Granger, how are you?” Draco asks, entering the room and dropping the sports section of the _Evening Prophet_ onto Ginny’s duvet.

“I’m doing well enough,” she answers, reflecting that the Malfoy heir looks much happier in the confines of the wizarding hospital than in his parents’ home. _He’s found a passion for his work,_ she muses.

“Everyone tells me that you are the one whom I must thank for saving me,” Ginny says, clasping Hermione’s hand.

“Don’t mention it,” she replies uncomfortably. “The headmaster did the most. I just ordered everyone around, like old times. Now, you must do your part and hurry up and get well so that you can teach. The students miss you.”

“I miss them, too,” Ginny smiles, then sighs. “I don’t know what any of us would have done without you in the war.”

 “How is the headmaster?” Neville interjects suddenly. “We’ve seen so little of him since the accident.”

Ginny looks startled. “He’s well, I suppose. He isn’t very talkative when he’s here.”

The Muggle Studies professor tries desperately not to imagine the headmaster must be doing with Ginny instead of talking. Perhaps sensing her train of thought, Neville continues hurriedly, “Have you had any other visitors?”

“My family, of course. And Harry left about an hour before you arrived.” 

Draco snorts and says with feeling, “Potter is an unmitigated ass.”

In response to this uncharitable remark, the three professors make noises of protest, but Draco insists, “He is! I’ve heard the whole story of his treatment of Weaselette here, and it shouldn’t have been allowed.” He casts an accusing glare at Harry’s best friend.

She deflates. “Harry really did treat Ginny horribly, but it was probably for the best, wasn’t it?”

“How can you say such a thing?” Ginny cries, indignant.

“Think about it. Ginny, you loved the _idea_ of Harry, not Harry for himself. And Harry loved you as some kind of lookalike stand-in for his mother. That isn’t exactly healthy. It’s a good thing that Harry figured it out for himself. ”

Ginny is quiet for a moment, clearly struggling with something. “What about you and Prince? Did he see you as another Lily? Is that why he left you?”

The Muggle Studies professor looks sideways at Draco. His jaw is nearly level with the floor. “No, he didn’t. I think that’s why he left.”

“I hate Lily!” Ginny says with sudden vehemence. “Everyone compares me to her, don’t they? We aren’t alike at all!”

“If it helps,” Draco drawls, “I don’t know anything about the sainted Lily Potter. So my dislike for you was formed entirely on your own merit.”

“We should leave, Hermione,” Neville says, his tone upset. He glares at Draco. “I hope to see you back at Hogwarts soon, Gin.”

“Thanks for visiting, you two,” Ginny murmurs softly. She seems to be mulling over the conversation. As the Herbology and Muggle Studies professors head out of the room, they hear Draco say to Ginny, “Never a dull moment with you lot, is there?”


	5. Chapter Five

Being back in the Ministry of Magic is jarring. She is a bundle of nerves before the first interview—Department of International Magical Cooperation, her top choice—so she boards a downward-bound elevator, stepping off when a cool female voice announces the Department of Mysteries’ floor. She practically runs to the gray room.

When she ascends to her appointment a full half-hour later, she looks and feels much refreshed. Her French plait is looser, allowing a few curls to spring attractively forth to frame her face. She has put Hogwarts and all it entails to the back of her mind.

A handsome, familiar-looking man is waiting for her when she is ushered into the office. “Professor Granger,” he says warmly. His eyes seem to brighten at the mere sight of her. “An honor,” he murmurs, shaking her hand courteously. “I’m Roger Davies, second to the ambassador to France.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Davies,” she replies. “You look terribly familiar, if you don’t mind my being forward.”

“We overlapped at Hogwarts,” he offers with a nod. “Ravenclaw, class of ’96.”

“Yes, I remember now.” She smiles tentatively. He flashes a pearly white smile in response.

“Well, shall we begin?”

~~

She walks back to the Ministry atrium with a smile threatening to peek from her lips. The interview had gone well—remarkably well. Roger had even offered to buy her lunch so that they could begin ironing out the details of the position.

“I’ve made plans to meet Professor McGonagall for lunch at the corner pub,” she had explained, but he somehow had wheedled his way into an invitation to join them. She found that she was not annoyed by the intrusion.

Professor McGonagall likes Roger very much, exclaiming that he had been her top Transfiguration student for three years in a row. Over fish and chips, the trio argues over international wizarding attitudes towards human rights—“Just some light lunchtime conversation,” Roger shrugs—and exchanges Ministry gossip—“Don’t tell Robards I told you about his encounter with the Andorran centaur.”

“Are you married, Roger?” Minerva asks bluntly at the tail end of the meal, causing the Muggle Studies professor to choke on her beer.

“I’m single at the moment,” he replies. “Cho Chang and I broke up about a year ago, and I’ve been too busy since then to do anything about my love life, I’m afraid.” 

“Hermione is always putting her work first, too,” Minerva says fondly. “You two are really very alike.”

The younger woman doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t voice her opinion. A predilection for work aside, they have different views on ambition, she feels. It has become clear to her over the course of the meal that Roger, like Percy Weasley, takes pride in his job for its high-level connections in the upper crust of both British wizarding society and the larger international community. For her, the appeal of the Department of International Magical Cooperation lies in the opportunities to learn about other cultures and wean British magical society of its love of insularity. She believes the threat of Voldemort could have been quenched much more rapidly had the ministry been able to call upon a coalition of magical forces to aid in its fight.

“What is the ambassador like?” she asks hurriedly.

“Terribly clever and terribly rude to us lesser mortals,” Roger says, his dimple receding. “You will learn a great deal about international policy from him, but don’t expect your ego to remain intact in the process.”

She shudders slightly. “I don’t think I like the sound of that. I’d rather stay at Hogwarts than deal with a bully of a boss.”

Roger raises a finely shaped eyebrow. “Isn’t Snape the headmaster these days? From what I remember of him during my school days, I’d take my chances with the Ministry any day.”

“He goes by Prince now. And yes, he has always been a little rough around the edges, but he has mellowed a great deal. He has been nothing but kind to me in my adulthood.”

Minerva changes the subject. “I hear you’re picking up the tab for Hermione, Roger, but I must insist on footing the bill for you both. It isn’t every day that I get to spend time with two of my favorite former students.”

“And it isn’t every day that I get to reacquaint myself with the best that Hogwarts has to offer! My treat, both of you,” Roger replies decisively, and that is the end of it.

~~

“Roger seems quite perfect for you, my dear,” Minerva says at tea. Concerned about a head cold that the old headmistress seemed to have acquired, the Muggle Studies professor had insisted on escorting Minerva home and caring for her for the rest of the day.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” the young woman asks, narrowing her eyes when Minerva attempts to hide a cough in her napkin.

“I’ll be fine soon enough,” Minerva replies with false cheer. “I happened to stay late at Hogwarts the other day, and I must have caught a cold on the walk back to the gates.”

“Why were you there so late? And why didn’t the headmaster offer you a room for the night? You could have stayed with me if there were no rooms.”

“Severus and I had much to discuss. I didn’t like to stay after it was over; I wanted my own bed, old woman that I am.”

“Hm.” The Muggle Studies professor frowns at her mentor but doesn’t pursue the subject.

“Now, dear, tell me what you thought of Roger.”

“He’s charming and evidently very intelligent, but we wouldn’t be a good couple.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve only known him a day, but he’s a careless sort of man, isn’t he? He told us all that Ministry gossip without any compunction, and from what I recall of him at Hogwarts, he was a notorious heartbreaker.”

“Those are minor faults that you would cure him of, I’m sure.”

The young woman sighs. “I’d rather not have to fix the man I’m with. All I ask of a man is that he be constant and think before he speaks. After all those years of keeping secrets for the Department of Mysteries, I’ve learned to appreciate the value of a close-mouthed, sincere and steady kind of person.”

“Openness in a man is to be prized, my dear,” Minerva says dismissively. “You haven’t seen enough of the world to know, so I can’t blame you for your opinion.”

“Excuse me?” The ex-Unspeakable rises to her feet, blue waves of magic crackling around her. “I’ve grown up bearing witness to the most reprehensible evil. I’ve committed acts of deception and treason for the sake of wizarding society’s future. Don’t you dare tell me I’ve seen nothing of the world! I may have been closeted away in the Ministry dungeons for ten years—because of you, I might add—but I finally know what I want. You’re like a mother to me, but you don’t get to tell me what I want. Not anymore.”

“Hermione, this tantrum will not be borne!” Yet Minerva actually looks slightly frightened. The Muggle Studies professor knows she must look demented, but she can’t bring herself to care. Her words have been ten years in the making.

“I can’t stay here,” she says feverishly, picking up her beaded handbag. “No doubt I’ll be back to apologize, sooner or later, but I’m not in the mood to do so right now.”

“Please, Hermione,” the older woman pleads, but the young woman has already disappeared with the signature _crack!_ of Disapparation.

~~

She lands unsteadily in front of the Hogwarts gates, and for a horrible second she fears that she has splinched herself. After a moment, though, her vision clears, and there beside her is none other than Ron.

“Ron!” She hugs him swiftly and perhaps over-enthusiastically, pumped with adrenaline as she is. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to confront the headmaster about something,” he says in a tight voice.

“That sounds dire.”

“He has a lot of explaining to do,” Ron replies ominously.

She shakes her head. Dear, hot-tempered Ron. “Let’s go, then.”

They enter the grounds via the imposing gates and march up to the school in silence, Ron seething and muttering under his breath. Eventually, the double doors swing open, an icy gust of wind pushing them into the entrance hall.

“There’s the blighter!” Ron exclaims, spying the headmaster’s tall frame moving at speed towards them, almost as if the dark man has been anticipating their arrival. The red-haired man takes a swing at the headmaster.

“ _Ron!_ ” she shrieks. Thankfully, Ron’s aim is less sure than in his days as goalkeeper for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and the headmaster’s hooked nose remains intact.

“Very mature, Mr. Weasley,” the man sneers. “A wand is wasted on you.”

“Shut it, Snape,” Ron replies angrily. “Tell Hermione what you did.”

“You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve done any number of things today, including polishing off a jam tart that Winky was kind enough to make especially for me.”

“Damn you.” Ron glares at both of his companions. “Tell her what you did to Ginny.”

“Headmaster?” Concerned, the Muggle Studies professor turns to face the headmaster.

He is quiet for a moment before replying.  “Apart from unwittingly encouraging a foolish infatuation on Ginevra’s part, I have done nothing wrong. This morning, Professor Weasley was discharged from St. Mungo’s. Rather than return to Hogwarts, she decided to elope.”

“ _What?_ ” Her heart thumps so loudly that she fancies the two men can hear it. “You two … you’re married?”

“Only fifty percent correct,” the headmaster replies. “Ginevra is indeed married, but not to me. When she returns from her honeymoon, we shall have to call her Professor Malfoy.” He gives her a rare heartfelt smile. She can’t help but grin back.

“You must have done something,” Ron hisses. “Encouraged her, encouraged _him_. She hates Malfoy. She’s always hated him!”

“I rather think she liked the _idea_ of hating him but found that the reality of hating him was, well, unrealistic,” the headmaster says mildly.

“It’s hard to hate the person who takes care of you, day in and day out, without a complaint,” the Muggle Studies professor says.

Ron rounds on her. “You’re _pleased_ about this, aren’t you?”

She shrugs. “If they’re happy, I’m happy. I don’t think the headmaster had anything to do with it.”

“You’re taking his side!”

“Ron, there’s no side to take,” she says patiently. “How did you find out about Ginny and Draco, anyway?”

“Gin sent us an owl when they were already”—he screws up his nose in disgust—“done in Gretna Green. They were on their way to Bordeaux.”

The headmaster shakes his head. “They should have chosen Vienna: much more to do there.”

“How did your parents react?” the Muggle Studies professor asks Ron.

“They went all quiet for about a minute, but then mum started crying about how she didn’t get to see her only daughter’s wedding. Malfoys’ parents came over”—Ron shudders—“and—can you believe it? They hugged mum and dad. Turns out they’re just thrilled little Draco is happy again.”

“You know, I saw Draco when I visited Ginny a few days ago,” she responds slowly. “He was hanging out in her room for no good reason at all. And he was practically bursting with good humor. I thought it was because he likes Healing, but it might really have been because he likes _Ginny_.”

“I noticed the same thing,” the headmaster confirms. She cannot wholly suppress her glee at his words. His total lack of discomfiture at the turn of events is bracing, reassuring. Ginny’s betrayal cannot have made him too unhappy. Ron is still unconvinced, but she manages to pack him off back to the Burrow with little resistance, thanks to a package full of sweet treats that magically appears on a side table. Winky’s handiwork, of course.

Alone together, the headmaster and the Muggle Studies professor don’t know what to say.

“It’s lucky that none of the students witnessed Mr. Weasley’s attempt to decapitate me,” he says wryly.

She laughs. “ _I_ saw it, though, and it was a sight I’ll never forget.”

“Obliviation is always an option,” he solemnly responds. Then: “How was your interview?”

“It went very well—a little too well, perhaps,” she says. “Roger Davies offered me a job on the spot, but I’ll have to think it over.”

“Davies? Ravenclaw, a few years above you? All too aware of his effect on women?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah.” He seems to suppress a smile. “Well, you have another interview tomorrow, if I’m not mistaken.”

 “Yes, in the Department of Magical Creatures, Beings Division.”

“I have business with the school governors in the morning, and they would like to meet at the Ministry. If you are planning to leave around eight, we could walk down to the Apparation point together.”

“That would be lovely! When do you think your meeting will finish? Perhaps we could make a trip to Muggle London after. I’ve put some books on back order for my fifth years, and it would be nice to pick them up.”

“That should be all right,” he acquiesces. “I’ll see you here in the morning.” He looks like he wants to say more, but he settles for a nod. As he turns to leave, she feels an excitement that she has not experienced in many years.

~~

_You’re a fool_ , he internally scolds himself after relinquishing his ex-fiancée in the Ministry’s grand atrium. She bounces away quite happily to locate her interview, her high ponytail swinging sweetly. _Absolutely thrilled to leave me and rejoin these dunderheaded bureaucrats,_ he grumbles under his breath, feeling an intense hatred of everyone and everything except her. He watches her until she is out of sight before boarding a massive elevator. He lied to her last night; his business is not with the school governors. It is with none other than—

“Shacklebolt,” the headmaster greets the Minister.

“What can I do for you, Severus?” Kingsley asks, shaking the professor’s hand cordially.

“Two things. One, you must ensure that Professor Granger gets whatever job she most desires here. The only stipulation is that she personally, without the influence of anyone else, tells you exactly what position she wants.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult unless she wishes to return to the Department of Mysteries. We’ve had to cut the budget there, which is why we let go of her in the first place,” the Minister replies.

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“All right, then. What is your second request?”

“You were an Unspeakable once, were you not?”

Kingley nods.  

“There is a room in the Department of Mysteries, a gray room with nothing in it. I would very much like to see it.”

Kingsley’s expression is inscrutable. “This is highly irregular, Severus. The room has maximum security and is only accessible to the Unspeakables who have studied it. What prompts your request, if I may ask?”

“I wish to study it, if only for an hour,” the headmaster responds simply. “It is the last personal favor I will ever ask of you.”

The two men stare each other down, a silent battle of wills waging.

“Fine,” Kingsley relents. “But no more favors.”

~~

They descend as deep underground as the Ministry elevators can go and are deposited in a desolate hallway. They walk down an empty winding hallway, then another and another. They enter through one imposing black doorway, then three more. He feels dizzy. He cannot imagine how the Muggle Studies professor navigated this cold, forbidding maze for so many years.

The Minister beckons him to a plain black door, by far the most innocuous-looking one they have passed thus far. “I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Kingsley says, turning the doorknob and opening the door slightly. Pushing the headmaster inside, the minister shuts the door decisively and hurries away.

He feels a heady stab of recognition, a most delightful awareness, as soon as he enters. The air tastes like his long-dead mother’s kisses, smells faintly of the cold peat of the construction that used to go on next to the park where he and Lily used to play. Mostly, the room feels like Hermione. He swears he can hear her soft singing, reminiscent of her wartime gift to him, carry through the walls. Sinking to the floor, he lies down, letting the pleasant sensations wash over him.

_What is this room?_ He feels like he is drowning in Amortentia. It’s an addictive experience, he suspects, instinctively understanding why his ex-lover kept returning. _What does the room feel like to her?_ He hopes it reminds her of him.

After a blissful interlude, he remembers his purpose for coming here. He pulls out a piece of parchment and a ballpoint pen—he hasn’t been able to shake his preference for the Muggle utensils over the unwieldy and impractical quill—from the inner breast pocket of his robes. He places the parchment against the wall and begins to write.

~~

“Be honest: do you think Draco and Ginny will be happy together?” she asks him later as they roam a bustling Muggle bookshop. She wants to know if he bears any residual bitterness towards Ginny and his friends’ son, and she is too straightforward to coax the information out of him in any subtle way.  

He sighs. “I wish them all the best, but they are very different. Draco is a reading man, a thoughtful one. Ginevra is active, impulsive. By all accounts, Miss Greengrass was active as well, but she could meet Draco wit for wit. Apart from being fast with a wand, Ginevra, I fear, does not have the type of intellect that could hold Draco’s attention for long.”

“I wouldn’t underestimate Ginny. She may not be Astoria, but she has many appealing qualities. She has a sense of mischief that I rather envy.”

“I envy them in one respect. On both sides, the parents seem willing to forgive and unite. It’s very different than—” he pauses, looking suddenly embarrassed, as though remembering something he would much rather forget. Her heart sinks.

He continues quickly, “What I can’t understand is how a heart as devoted as Draco’s was able to move on so quickly after Miss Greengrass’s passing. It has been less than a year since her death, I think. A wizard doesn’t—shouldn’t—recover so easily from such a loss.”

The air between them is thick, heavy with tension. If her hand moves just a foot to the left, her fingers would be able to caress his where they lie on a heavy Tolkien collection. Oh, how she longs to do so!

“You read the Gatsby I assigned a few months ago,” she says to distract herself from temptation.

“Yes,” he smiles humorlessly. “It was … insightful.”

“I wonder if the seventh years can truly appreciate it yet,” she remarks. “I find that it grows on me as my experience of life increases.”

“The author took many years to perfect it, did he not? You can tell by the maturity, the conciseness of his prose.”

“It makes me want to visit the States,” she sighs. “I have traveled so little.”

“Until I moved to Austria, I was much the same way,” he replies softly. “There is still a great deal of the world that I wish to see.”

“Do you think—” she begins, but she is cut off in a most unwelcome way by a surprised shout of “Hermione!”

“Roger! Hello,” she says, smiling half-heartedly at the windswept newcomer. She quickly adds, “You remember Professor Prince, I’m sure?”

“Delighted, sir.” Roger shakes the headmaster’s hand in a congenial manner.

“Charmed,” the stern older man replies briefly. “I’ll meet you at the door, Hermione.”

The Muggle Studies professor looks after his retreating back with ill-disguised yearning. “What are you doing here, Roger?” she says at last, turning to her new companion.

“Thought I’d stretch my legs a bit during my lunch break.” He shrugs. “Muggle London’s good for a change of pace.”

“Do you read Muggle literature?”

“Other than whatever Professor Burbage assigned in her class, no, I’m afraid. Do you have any recommendations?”

“Well, I’m assigning this to my students,” she says, gesturing to a glossy new cover of _To Kill a Mockingbird._ He peruses the synopsis on the back of the book.

“Interesting, but not particularly relevant, is it?”

“Why not? It’s a Muggle perspective of race relations, which we could then translate into an exploration of wizarding stances on blood purity. It might turn out to be the most relevant and mind-changing text we read all year.”

Roger grins. “You’re as much a crusader for lost causes as ever, aren’t you?”

She bristles. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, my dear Miss Granger, that your devotion to changing the unchangeable precedes you.”

“If wanting to help wizarding society make progress means fighting an uphill battle …” she begins hotly, before she is interrupted by a couple of giggling young women nearby.

“Him! The one leaning against the wall by the front door,” says one.

“He’s so _sexy_! And he’s looking this way,” the other one squeals.

“Are they talking about _Snape_?” Roger says incredulously. He rakes his fingers through his hair, trying to catch the eye of the nearest girl.  

The Muggle Studies professor glances at the doorway, her heartbeat quickening. There is no one else there but an elegantly slouching, scarf-draped headmaster. And he is looking straight at her, making no attempt to hide his smoldering gaze. She suddenly wants nothing more than to shake Roger off—permanently.

“I have to rescue him,” she says hurriedly, grabbing her purchases and dashing to the door.

As she leaves, she hears Roger ask the girls if they have read _To Kill a Mockingbird._


	6. Chapter Six

The headmaster is quiet as they trudge through the snowy school grounds. He carries a copy of the fifth years’ assigned reading, having silently agreed to read the book when she shyly handed it to him. He holds the book carefully, as though it is a precious gift. Oh, she has missed him so!

However, his expression, when she dares to look up at his face, is faintly mutinous. In spite of the lovely morning they have shared, has she upset him? She cannot bear it. 

“Prince?” she asks timidly. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” he says flatly, his tone forbidding further questioning. He spells open the heavy double doors that signify the entrance to Hogwarts. “You must be starving. Lunch will be served soon.”

“Won’t you be joining us?” she asks as she steps in the direction of the Great Hall and sees him continuing on towards the central staircase. 

“No. I have a new Muggle Studies professor to recruit,” he responds stiffly, not looking back at her.

She stares in dismay at his rapidly receding figure.

~~

His mind is spinning; relaxation is out of the question. She was so beautiful, so young and vibrant this morning: all things that he is not. Over the years, he had allowed anger and self-recrimination to cloud his memory of these essential qualities. _She should be with someone as young and beautiful as she is. Someone like Roger Davies._

Should he, can he let her go again? 

There is a peremptory knock on his office door. Too mentally disorganized to even speak, he simply opens the door with a wave of his hand. 

“Severus,” Lucius beams, striding forward. 

“Lucius,” the headmaster springs to his feet. “What are you doing here? How fares Narcissa? And Draco?”

“All your questions shall be answered in due course,” the Malfoy patriarch responds grandly, “but only at the dining table. Narcissa is in the Great Hall. We have come to repay the visit that you paid us.” 

The headmaster shrinks back. “I’d much rather stay here; I have work to complete. We can catch up after your meal.”

“Severus Snape—Prince, I mean. Is there a dragon in the Great Hall to make you so fearful? Come now, there’s a good man.” Lucius claps a hand onto the headmaster’s back, steering him back down the spiral staircase and several others. Soon enough, they are in the room that he has been trying to avoid. Narcissa is conversing happily with the Muggle Studies professor at the head table. Thankfully, the seats on either side of the headmaster’s chair are empty. 

“Severus!” Narcissa walks over and plants a kiss on the dour man’s cheek. “We came as soon as we could. I know that you have a soft spot for our new daughter-in-law. We wanted to make sure that there are no hard feelings.” Next to him, Lucius preens. 

The headmaster shakes his head. While much improved by their postwar restrictions, the Malfoys still enjoyed being able to one-up their peers, even those whom they considered their friends. He can see his ex-fiancée frowning at the Malfoys from behind Narcissa’s back.

“I have nothing but congratulations for you and the happy couple. I do hope you will be able to cope with being second in Draco’s love and attention once again,” he replies smoothly. Narcissa’s smug smile fades slightly. _Sometimes,_ he thinks, _the only way to deal with Slytherins is to behave like a Slytherin._ “When do Draco and Ginevra plan to make their triumphant return?” 

“In ten days,” Lucius chimes in. “They will make a stop at the old Malfoy estate near Paris before moving in with us.” 

“How pleased you will be to have them back!” the Muggle Studies professor enthuses. 

“Yes,” Narcissa affirms, but a light frown graces her otherwise placid features. “I suppose we will have to entertain Molly and Arthur on a regular basis, but it cannot be helped.”

“Oh, yes, you will all be one large, happy family for the rest of your lives,” the young professor replies with an innocent-enough smile. “Just think of all the Christmases you’ll spend at the Burrow!” 

Catching Lucius trying and failing to suppress a shudder, the headmaster chuckles. _Well done, Professor Granger. You’ll make a fine Slytherin yet._ “I wish Draco and his new bride the best,” he says conclusively. “I look forward to finding out whether the Malfoy or the Weasley genes reign supreme in the hair of this union’s offspring.”

“Even if they have the reddest hair in the world, I will love my grandchildren dearly,” Narcissa vows. 

The Muggle Studies professor imagines Lucius Malfoy surrounded by a host of small ginger-haired, pointy-chinned menaces. Unsuccessfully, she attempts to hide her giggles. 

~~

It feels like she has Turned back time to the beginning of the school year. He refuses to meet her eyes, doesn’t say a word to her. He is listening intently to her conversation with Narcissa, but only because he has no other recourse. She feels anger and desperation well up inside of her, threatening to burst forth from the dam she built so many years ago to contain them. She refuses to play this game with him, not after all these years. 

Neville arrives, a much-needed distraction. “Hello,” he says to her, glancing nervously at the Malfoys on either side of her. 

“Professor Longbottom, I trust you have met Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy?” the headmaster asks. 

“Not formally, no,” the new Herbology professor replies, eyeing Draco’s parents distrustfully, and with good reason. 

“It’s nice to meet you at last, professor,” Narcissa gushes. “You must be wondering why we’re here. We’ve come to thank Severus for introducing our new daughter-in-law to Draco.”

“New daughter-in-law?” Neville asks, mystified.

“Yes, Ginevra Weasley,” Lucius responds. 

Neville settles heavily into a seat at the end of the head table. “Congratulations,” he says gloomily. As the Malfoys exchange baffled looks, the Muggle Studies professor rises to join her pale friend. The headmaster watches as his ex-fiancée places a small hand gently on Neville’s slightly trembling wrist. Hit with a jolt of understanding, he indulges in a sudden rush of pity for the man that the accident-prone boy has become. He stands and moves closer to them, not really aware of what he is doing. He can feel the heat of Professor Granger’s gaze on him. 

“Adjusting to full-time teaching can be a draining experience,” he finds himself saying to the lost-looking young man. “Why don’t you take the afternoon off? Narcissa has a talent for Herbology, and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind overseeing your classes while she’s here.”

“Severus,” Mrs. Malfoy begins to protest, but he silences her with a cold sneer.

Neville says slowly, “That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’d like to teach. I’ve found that it helps to keep busy.” 

“Very well.” The headmaster nods, turning to make his way back to Lucius. 

“Won’t you sit a moment, headmaster?” Neville asks abruptly. He is looking at the dark man with more favor than he ever has before. Without quite knowing why, the tall headmaster acquiesces, sinking into a chair on the other side of the new teacher.

“Even though they didn’t wait to include us in their wedding, I’m so glad that Draco and Ginevra didn’t have a long engagement,” Narcissa says, loudly enough for the quiet knot of professors around Neville to overhear. “Draco and Astoria waited far too long, in my opinion. Theirs was such an uncertain engagement, too. A witch and wizard should never commit to each other without a sense of when they will marry and what each wants out of the relationship.”

There are at least two people at the table for whom these words strike a little too close to home. Two people whose much-vaunted brains are working furiously. 

“Too right, my dear,” Lucius says lazily, reaching out to stroke his wife’s cheek. “I can’t count the number of times you admonished Draco and Astoria about it.”

“Astoria meant well, the poor dear,” Narcissa sighs. “But she thought she knew what was best for Draco. She didn’t ask him what he wanted.”

A puzzle piece slides neatly into place in the Muggle Studies professor’s brain, a mystery—the only one she was never able to solve in the Department of Mysteries—solved. 

_‘As usual, she is right in all the essentials but is missing something important.’_

_Severus, switching his ring with the Unspeakables’ ring, with Occluded eyes—the only time he had ever Occluded in front of her. Severus, not answering her question regarding whether he preferred Lily to her. Severus, casting a mysterious Patronus that could have been a lion—but it had wings?_

_“They hate me,” he says, turning away from her and walking to the window. “Your parents. Your friends. They’ll hate you, too, if we go through with this.”_

_“How many times must we have this argument?” she whispers, wrapping her arms around him from behind. “They could never hate me. Not one of them. They’ll come around to you eventually. They’re just blinded by the façade you had to put up for so long.”_

_He snorts. “Façade? I have never been a nice man, Death Eater or no.”_

_“Not through any fault of your own.” She slips around him, squeezing in between him and the windowsill. They watch from the headmaster’s tower as the Giant Squid extends an enormous tentacle to rescue a notebook from the highest branches of a willow that droops over the lake. The squid drops the treasured item onto the shore in front of a small girl in Hufflepuff robes, who jumps in delight. The headmaster chuckles, his laugh rumbling through the young woman in front of him and causing her to shiver happily._

_“Not a nice man, although I’d argue that you’re very nice to me. The best man, though. Even Harry couldn’t argue with that.”_

_He is quiet for a moment, clearly battling an internal demon. “I just want to do right by you,” he says at last, placing his hands on her shoulders._

_“Your sense of honor will be the end of you yet,” she mutters, but she places her head under his chin anyway._

_‘Steadfast and a constant joy.’_

_Steadfast and a constant joy … a man of honor …_

_Steadfast …_

“Merlin’s knickers,” she gasps, momentarily pausing in her patting of Neville’s hand. 

“Astoria would never have forgotten him this quickly,” Neville says in a tone too low for the Malfoys to hear. On his other side, the headmaster is taut, tense. “I knew her when we were little, you know. The Greengrasses were just about the only purebloods apart from our family that Gran could stomach. Astoria and her sister Daphne and I used to play together. Tea parties and such—I was outnumbered, you see.” He smiles sadly. “She used to give me teacakes from her kitchen. She was so doting.” 

“From what I know of her, I can easily believe it,” she responds, her mind still chewing on other, more interesting things. “Any witch who loved truly would be the same way.” 

He huffs a laugh. “That’s a lofty claim to make. Do you really believe that?”

“Yes!” The word escapes her without a moment’s thought. “Did you know that I studied love when I was a minion of the Ministry? I learned that in some ways, the wizarding world has been more advanced than Muggle society. A powerful witch is respected in equal measure to a powerful wizard, for example. But history shows that the most formidable wizards are easily distracted by other challenges: the pursuit of influence and wealth, among other things. A powerful witch in love, on the other hand—there is no stopping her devotion. Her feelings are intimately linked to her magic.” 

Neville makes a noise of dissent. “How do you explain the amazing feats of magic that wizards have accomplished in the name of love? A wizard is only as strong as his love is.”

“It is true that love has made many a wizard’s magic more potent, but I don’t think that a wizard’s love lasts longer than a witch’s. Just as witches tend to outlive wizards, their love transcends the trappings of time and distance.” She falls silent for a minute. “I don’t mean to make little of a wizard’s feelings, Neville. I have the greatest respect for what the love of a great wizard can do. All I claim for my fellow witches is that we have the capacity to love even when all hope is gone.” 

“What do you think, headmaster?” Neville asks, shifting to look at his other lunch companion, but the severe man has begun to rise to leave. The headmaster’s eyes burn into those of the Muggle Studies professor for an instant. He moves to walk past the two young professors. 

A quivering hand on his sleeve stops him in his tracks. 

“Severus,” the owner of the small hand says, an indefinable emotion glimmering in her eyes. “Severus, _please.”_

He can’t help himself, can’t cope with the onslaught of emotions that this particular woman has a peculiar talent for making him feel. “Damn it, witch! Where is your fire? When did you become this puling mess?”

She is speechless. There is pin-drop silence at the head table. Neville looks furious, but the headmaster continues before the other man can leap to his friend’s defense. 

“Tell me,” he hisses recklessly, harshly. “Do you really wish to join the Ministry?” _Do you really want to leave me behind?_

Ever so slowly, she straightens her spine. Rising bravely to her feet—she is a good half-foot shorter than him—she pokes him fiercely in the chest. “Severus, you infuriating wizard,” she says urgently, “I have _never_ wanted to join the Ministry.” There are tears in her eyes and in her voice, but there is determination in both, too. 

All of the professors are looking curiously at them, their eyes traveling between the Muggle Studies professor’s hand, where it rests squarely over the headmaster’s heart, to their boss’s agitated face. Only the vague noise of students’ voices at their House tables roars alongside the blood rushing from the headmaster’s brain back to his heart. 

“Severus,” Lucius interrupts after a minute, tiring of this unyielding tension. “Do you have business this afternoon? I’m planning to speak to the school governors this afternoon. It would be nice to rejoin the board now that you’re back in charge and my daughter-in-law is a teacher here. Your recommendation would be a significant help in this regard.”

The headmaster’s gaze is locked with his ex-fiancée’s. “I’ll assist you, Lucius, but Professor Granger must join us,” he says firmly. The witch bows her head mutely in response. She couldn’t have left his side if she tried. 

~~

“It’s dreadfully cold out. Shall we take brooms to the front gates?” Lucius asks after lunch. 

The Muggle Studies professor shakes her head vigorously. The headmaster’s eyes almost twinkle. 

“You never did like flying,” he says in a soft tone that Lucius has never heard from him, “but people change with the times.”

“I haven’t changed as much as you seem to think,” she retorts sharply. He quirks a half-smile at her obstinacy.

“No, I suppose you haven’t.”

“I’ll see you two at the Ministry,” Lucius says impatiently. He summons his broom and stalks off into the bleak midwinter. 

“We shall fly,” the headmaster tells her firmly. 

“Severus,” she begins warningly, but before she can protest further, he scoops her up into his arms and leaps into the sky. 

_Oh!_ She burrows her head into his neck, too terrified to peer down at the rapidly receding Hogwarts grounds. 

“I thought you disliked flying because you are bad at it,” he says conversationally, his rich voice reverberating through his chest and reassuring her. “However, I’m beginning to think that you have a fear of heights.” 

“And I’m beginning to think you have a Superman complex,” she mutters, clutching tightly onto his waist and cracking open one eye to observe that he has one arm extended forward, the other wrapped securely around her. 

“I have been accused of many things, but fancying myself Superman isn’t one of them,” he says, finally making his descent to the Hogwarts gates. “Now, wasn’t that faster than walking?”

“Do you expect me to applaud and swoon over how talented a flier you are?” she says sarcastically. “I did it for years to appease Harry and Ron; you’re out of luck.” 

“Ah, but Potter and Weasley needed brooms to fly, did they not?” He lands but does not release her. “Next stop: the Ministry.” He quickly spins into a graceful Disapparation, pulling along his dizzy companion. She cannot help but laugh. 

“You ridiculous man,” she sighs as they step into the Ministry’s visitor’s entrance, a decrepit London telephone box. 

“Foolish, certainly, but never ridiculous,” he corrects, cradling her close to him as they descend down to the atrium. They smile shyly at each other, still intertwined in a careful embrace when Lucius bears down upon them. 

“People are staring,” Mr. Malfoy says casually. “You’re lucky Rita Skeeter isn’t buzzing around.”

“Let them stare,” the Muggle Studies professor replies quietly. “I’m not ashamed.” She looks challengingly at the headmaster. He meets her gaze evenly but says nothing as he steps away from her. 

Nodding approvingly at the dour man, Lucius says, “I’ve checked in at the visitor’s desk. Apparently, the governors will reconvene in half an hour. They will be ready for an audience at two. How shall we entertain ourselves in the meantime?”

“I could visit Harry—”

“Hermione, I asked you to come here for a purpose,” the headmaster interrupts in a tone that allows no room for disagreement. “Lucius, I’ll meet you here at a quarter to two.”

They can tell that the Malfoy patriarch is positively bursting with curiosity, but he has the decency to refrain from questioning. “Good luck.”

With a jerk of his head, the silent headmaster beckons the young woman to follow in his billowing wake. 

~~

The long walk to the gray room is a blur; he is too nervous, too exhilarated, too occupied in watching her curls bounce before him as she leads the way. 

“Why do you want to see the gray room?” she asks, stopping abruptly outside the familiar plain black door. 

“Humor me” is all he says, casting a nonverbal Alohomora. He gestures for her to precede him into the room. The door closes behind them with a quiet click. 

The room looks the same as always, but something feels different—feels off. She settles onto the floor, feeling a sudden chill at the loss of the usual cocoon of safety, of peace. 

“What did you do? The room—it isn’t working!” She is frantic. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Normally, the room is warm and cozy. It feels like I am being washed in silk, as mad as that sounds.”

He advances towards her as she speaks. Hearing a noise, she swivels on her bum to find him sitting behind her. 

“Does it feel like this?” he asks, lifting her onto his lap and wrapping his arms around her. She can feel the silk of his robes rubbing sensuously against her arms. She nods mutely, relaxing into him. 

“It smells like you, too,” she confesses, her voice muffled by the robes into which she has pressed her face. 

“Does it sound like this?” he asks, murmuring “princess” between soft kisses into her hair, along her jaw, down the line of her neck. 

“You sound better,” she admits, adjusting her position to allow him better access. “And—mm, you taste better, too.”

“In that case, I don’t think you need to visit this room anymore,” he says authoritatively. 

She smiles impishly. “I might need some convincing.” 

~~

It is nearing the time of Lucius’s appointment. The headmaster has transfigured his frock coat into a black duvet on which the two of them lie. She doesn’t ever want to leave this room, this refuge from a reality in which their relationship is less certain. 

“All that vomit you spouted at lunch about witches loving longer than wizards was preposterous nonsense,” he says, carding his fingers through her curls. Her high ponytail had been let loose half an hour earlier. 

“You’re right. Your feelings for Lily prove it,” she says. She traces his lips with a finger, reveling in his proximity. 

“Let us get this matter sorted, once and for all,” he says, sitting up ramrod straight. She mourns the shift in position. “Yes, I loved Lily. I will always love her as the dear friend I unwittingly wronged. But I went willingly into the Final Battle for love of another woman. I forced myself to recuperate from that dratted snake attack so that I could see this other woman’s smiling face every day. If Lily were alive now and somehow wanted me, I would choose you, princess.” 

She tries to will away the tears in her eyes. “I know, Severus. I figured it out today. At lunch.”

“My little Know-It-All,” he sighs. He brushes away the tears slipping down her cheeks. “May I ask what precipitated this epiphany?”

“I remembered your blasted sense of honor,” she says, “and your bloody loyalty.” She hesitates. “And your Patronus has changed.” 

_“Expecto Patronum!”_ The half-eagle, half-lion beast erupts from his wand and pads towards her, sweeping into an elegant bow at her feet. “A griffin, ever since your seventh year. He knows whom he serves.”

“Why act now, Severus?” she whispers. “You were content to leave me alone for ten years. We’ve lived under the same roof for months now. I know you must have held a grudge against me. What I did to us—interviewing for the Unspeakable position—that was unconscionable.”

“We both made mistakes,” he responds slowly. “I was horrified when you showed me that ring. To be consigned to seven years without you, after all that we’d been through—I couldn’t speak, I was so angry. But having been exposed to your maturity beyond your years, I forgot that you were still quite young—still inclined to listen to your elders. I didn’t account for Minerva McGonagall. She told me last week of her role in the affair. She was worried that you had not recovered from our ‘dalliance,’ to use her words.” 

“It was never just a dalliance for me,” she says softly. “I’m glad she told you. I should have told you long ago.”

“I probably wouldn’t have listened to you,” he admits. “I harbored too much ill-feeling towards you. But Minerva, without knowing it, gave me hope. And knowing that you’d refused at least one other man’s proposal helped. Ginevra Weasley’s accident—it softened me even more towards you. You were magnificent.”

She kisses him. “It’s going to take some time before everything is completely right again.”

“I know,” he says seriously. “But this is the most right I’ve felt in a decade.” She nods, rubbing her nose against his neck. 

“What will happen when we leave this room?” she asks. “Do we have to go back to being the headmaster and the Muggle Studies professor?”

He extends a hand to her. “I think it’s high time the world met Prince Severus and the princess Hermione.” They shake on it. He whispers into her hair, “If you repeat that sappy line to anyone, I will fervently deny saying it, _and_ I’ll take twenty points from Gryffindor.” 

~~

The school governors are so rattled by the irrepressible smile on the normally sarcastic headmaster’s face that they immediately give into his request for Lucius’s reinstatement. Lucius is both pleased and confounded. When he asks the headmaster why he is in such a good mood, the answer merely puzzles him further: “Ask the princess.” Hermione smiles demurely at them both. 

The next morning, she receives two owls at breakfast. One bears a letter from Roger, begging her to reconsider her refusal of his job offer. She tosses this letter to the side without a second thought. The other letter, borne by a handsome black-feathered owl, is from her mother, inviting her to tea that afternoon. _“I’ve made enough cake and biscuits for the British army,” the letter reads, “So bring a guest to help us polish off the lot.”_

“Will you go with me?” she asks Prince, anxiously trying to read his eyes. “I don’t want to keep this from her or daddy.”

His face is inscrutable, but his eyes soften. “Certainly. If they say anything that makes me angry, stuff my mouth with a chocolate biscuit.”

~~

The Drs. Granger patiently await their guests in their sitting room. Eager to do things right this time, Hermione’s mother is wearing one of her best dresses. Her father paces slowly in front of the roaring fire, a slip of parchment clutched in his hand. 

_“I am writing to reclaim my happiness,”_ the letter begins. _“Ten years ago, we met at your daughter’s graduation. I admit that I got carried away with my good fortune. I proposed to Hermione before I consulted with you. Regardless of how you would have answered, I would have asked for her hand in marriage, but I did not even pay you the courtesy of informing you of my intentions._

_I cannot blame you for your dislike of me and of my past. I am not an easy man, but your daughter convinced me long ago that I am a good man. One day, I might even convince you of it. For now, I would be content with your blessing to have the opportunity to do so. For your daughter’s sake, if not mine. I have reason to believe that she may love me still. If this is the case, I plan to ask her, once again, to marry me.”_

“Do you think she’ll bring him?” Hermione’s father asks. 

“I hope she does,” her mother says. The doorbell buzzes. “Oh, do be circumspect.” She hurries out of the room to open the front door. Hermione’s father strains to hear the voices emanating from the hallway, but the newcomers enter the sitting room before he can prepare himself. 

“Daddy!” Hermione says, giving the man a hug. 

“Dr. Granger,” says a tall, serious man dressed in black slacks and, surprisingly, a Beatles jumper. The two men shake hands. 

“Professor Prince,” the young woman’s father says stiffly but not unwelcomingly. 

The group gathers around the coffee table to partake of the freshly baked goods. Hermione’s hand never leaves the dark-haired man’s thigh, which neither dentist fails to notice. 

Hermione is the first to break the awkward silence. “I’m surprised you made so many sweets, Mummy. Aren’t you afraid of tooth rot?” 

“It’s a special occasion, isn’t it?” her mother replies. To Hermione’s surprise, there are tears in her mother’s eyes. “My little daughter is going to be married.”

_“What?”_

“Damn,” Severus curses. He turns sideways to face her. “I was going to ask you tonight, princess. Marry me.” 

She is already tearing up. “Oh, Severus, I—”

“Do you love her, Prince?” Hermione’s father interjects gruffly. “You never said in your letter. It’s the only question I have for you.”

Severus looks directly into Hermione’s eyes. “After all this time? Yes. I swear it.” 

“That’s good enough for me,” the other man says with a shrug. “I’ve been reading all about what you did in the war. You’re the only man in the world, apart from Harry Potter, who is worthy of our daughter.”

“Are you quite done, Daddy? I’d like to finish accepting Severus’s proposal before he gets angry about being compared to Harry.”

~~

They marry a month later in the gray room. Fitting the entire Weasley and Malfoy contingent into the small space is a narrow thing, but magic is on their side; everyone manages to find a comfortable seat. A beaming Neville serves as one of the groomsmen, while Minerva, with whom both the bride and groom have reconciled, weeps tears of joy in the front row. Ginny and Draco cuddle in a corner. 

During the afterparty, which is held at Hogwarts so that the students can join in the festivities, Ron steals a dance with her. 

“That room where you had the ceremony is something else,” he says, shaking his head. “It smelt like Luna Lovegood—peaches and cinnamon, you know. Thought I could hear her singing, too.” 

“Mr. Weasley, do you mind if I cut in?” a warm baritone asks. As Ron transfers his best friend to the headmaster’s waiting arms, Severus says, “Speaking of Miss Lovegood, is that her by the cake? She looks as if she’d like to dance.” His words are an understatement; Luna is already swaying by herself, exciting catcalls from a few obnoxious seventh-year boys. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Ron says, swelling with annoyance at the sight of the students. He hurries over to Luna. 

“Matchmaking, are we, Professor Prince?” the newly minted Madam Prince teases. 

“Merely doing whatever it takes to get him away so that I can kidnap you,” he replies. 

“It’s hardly kidnapping when we both live here already,” she reproves. 

“Ah, but I’m planning to smuggle you away to the States,” he says. “Just for two weeks, mind.” 

“Really, Severus?” she asks in delight. “When can we go?”

“Whenever you like.” He smiles crookedly. “We have all the time in the world.” 

~~

Thank you all for being such a lovely audience! I absolutely loved writing this fic and hope you’ll check out my WIP that I'll start posting on here over the next few days, “A Truth Universally Acknowledged.”


End file.
